THEIR 

YESTERDAYS 


HAROLD 
BELL 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 


Books  by  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 


THAT    PRINTER    OF    UDELL'S 

Illustrations  by  Gilbert.     12mo.     Cloth.  SI.  SO 

THE  SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

Illustrations  by  Cootes.     12mo.     Cloth,  SI.  50 

THE  CALLING  OF  DAN  MATTHEWS 

Illustrations  by  Keller.     12mo.     Cloth.  SI.  SO 

THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH 

Illustrations  by  Cootes.     12mo.     Cloth,  SI.  30  Net 

THEIR     YESTERDAYS 

Illustrations  by  Cootes.     12mo.     Cloth,  $1.30  Net 

The  abo<ve  are  uniformly  bound 


THE     UNCROWNED     KING 

Illustrations  by  Neill.     16mo.     Cloth.  SOc  Net 
Full  Leather.  SI.  00  Net 


In  the  glowing  heart  of  the  fire  she  saw  her  home  warm  with  holy  love  (page  35) 


THEIR 
YESTERDAYS 


BY 


HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH 
ETC.,   ETC. 


With  Illustrations  by 
F.   GRAHAM   COOTES 


THE   BOOK  SUPPLY  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT.  1912 
BY  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 


COPYRIGHT.  1912 
BY  ELSBBRY  W.  REYNOLDS 


PUBLISHED.  SEPTEMBER.  1912 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO  MRS.  ELSBERY  W.  REYNOLDS 

IN  ADMIRATION  OF  THE  SPLENDID  MOTHER 
HOOD  THAT,  IN  HER  SONS,  HAS  CONTRIBUTED 
SUCH  WEALTH  OF  MANHOOD  TO  THE  RACE, 
AND,  IN  HER  DAUGHTER,  HAS  GIVEN  TO 
HUMAN-KIND  SUCH  RICHES  OF  WOMANHOOD. 
WITH  KINDEST  REGARDS,  I  INSCRIBE  THIS  BOOK. 

H.  B.  W. 

"RELAY  HEIGHTS" 
JUNE  8,  1912 


250600 


Behold  the  child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw; 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  his  youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite; 
Scarfs,  garters,  gold,  amuse  his  riper  stage, 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  age; 
Pleased  with  this  bauble  still,  as  that  before; 
Till  tired  he  sleeps,  and  life's  poor  play  is  o'er. 

"AN  ESSAY  ON  MAN"— Pope. 


PROEM 

HERE  was  a  man. 

And  it  happened — as  such  things 
often  so  happen — that  this  man  went 
hack  into  his  days  that  were  gone. 
Again  and  again  and  again  he  went  hack.  Even  as 
every  man,  even  as  you  and  I,  so  this  man  went 
back  into  his  Yesterdays. 

Then — why  then  there  was  a  woman. 
And   it  happened — as   such  things   sometimes   so 
happen — that  this  woman  also  went  back  into  her 
days  that  were  gone.     Again  and  again  and  again 
she  went  back.     Even  as  every  woman,  even  as  you 
and  I,  so  this  woman  went  back  into  her  Yesterdays. 
So  it  happened — as  such  things  do  happen — that 
the  Yesterdays  of  this  man  and  the  Yesterdays  of  this 
woman  became  Their  Yesterdays,  and  that  they  went 
back,  then,  no  more  alone  but  always  together. 
Even  as  one,  they,  forever  after,  went  back. 


THE  THIRTEEN  TRULY  GREAT 
THINGS  OF  LIFE 

PAGE 

DREAMS 15 

OCCUPATION    45 

KNOWLEDGE    71 

IGNORANCE    105 

RELIGION 137 

TRADITION    164 

TEMPTATION   193 

LIFE     217 

DEATH 245 

FAILURE    264 

SUCCESS 285 

LOVE    297 

MEMORIES  . 310 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Drawn  by 
F.  GRAHAM  COOTES 

PAGE 

IN   THE   GLOWING  HEART  OF   THE   FIEE   SHE  SAW 
HER  HOME   WARM   WITH   HOLY  LOVE    (FrOIltis- 

piece)     35 

THE     LIFE     THAT     CROWDED     HER     SO     CLOSELY 

DRIFTED  FAR,   FAR,  AWAY 131 

TWO   DIMPLED  ARMS   WENT  AROUND  HIS   NECK.  .     203 


THEY    TOLD    ME    THAT    YOU    WERE    HERE 
I   WANTED  TO   GO   AWAY  AGAIN"  .  .  .     303 


Their  Yesterdays  |fi 

DREAMS 

^VIHE  man,  for  the  first  time,  stood  face 
T"1  \    to  face  with  Life  and,  for  the  first  time, 
Ik    knew  that  he  was  a  man. 

*^  For  a  long  time  he  had  known  that 
some  day  he  would  be  a  man.  But  he  had  always 
thought  of  his  manhood  as  a  matter  of  years.  He 
had  said  to  himself:  "when  I  am  twenty-one,  I  will 
be  a  man."  He  did  not  know,  then,  that  twenty-one 
years — that  indeed  three  times  twenty-one  years — 
cannot  make  a  man.  He  did  not  know,  then,  that 
men  are  made  of  other  things  than  years. 

I  cannot  tell  you  the  man's  name,  nor  the  names 
of  his  parents,  nor  his  exact  age,  nor  just  where  he 
lived,  nor  any  of  those  things.  For  my  story,  such 
things  are  of  no  importance  whatever.  But  this  is 
of  the  greatest  importance :  as  the  man,  for  the  first 
time,  stood  face  to  face  with  Life  and,  for  the  first 
time,  realized  his  manhood,  his  manhood  life  began 
in  Dreams. 

15 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

It  is  the  dreams  of  life  that,  at  the  beginning  of 
life,  matter.  Of  the  Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of 
Life,  Dreams  are  first. 

It  was  green  fruit  time.  From  the  cherry  tree 
that  grew  in  the  upper  corner  of  the  garden  next 
door,  close  by  the  hedge  that  separated  the  two 
places,  the  blossoms  were  gone  and  the  tiny  cherries 
were  already  well  formed.  The  nest,  that  a  pair  of 
little  brown  birds  had  made  that  spring  in  the  hedge, 
was  just  empty,  and,  from  the  green  laden  branches 
of  the  tree,  the  little  brown  mother  was  calling 
anxious  advice  and  sweet  worried  counsel  to  her 
sons  and  daughters  who  were  trying  their  new  wings. 

In  the  cemetery  on  the  hill,  beside  a  grave  over 
which  the  sod  had  formed  thick  and  firm,  there  was 
now  another  grave — another  grave  so  new  that  on  it 
no  blade  of  grass  had  started — so  new  that  the  yellow 
earth  in  the  long  rounded  mound  was  still  moist 
and  the  flowers  that  tried  with  such  loving,  tender, 
courage,  to  hide  its  nakedness  were  not  yet  wilted. 
Cut  in  the  block  of  white  marble  that  marked  the 
grass-grown  grave  were  the  dearest  words  in  any 
tongue — Wife  and  Mother ;  while,  for  the  new-made 
mound  that  lay  so  close  beside,  the  workmen  were 
carving  on  a  companion  stone  the  companion  words. 

There  were  two  other  smaller  graves  nearby — one 
16 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

of  them  quite  small — but  they  did  not  seem  to  matter 
so  much  to  the  tall  young  fellow  who  had  said  to 
himself  so  many  times:  "when  I  am  twenty-one,  I 
will  be  a  man."  It  was  the  two  graves  marked  by 
the  companion  words  that  mattered.  And  certainly 
he  did  not,  at  that  time,  feel  himself  a  man.  As  he 
left  the  cemetery  to  go  home  with  an  old  neighbor 
and  friend  of  the  family,  he  felt  himself  rather  a 
very  small  and  lonely  boy  in  a  very  big  and  empty 
world. 

But  there  had  been  many  things  to  do  in  those 
next  few  days,  with  no  one  but  himself  to  do  them. 
There  had  been,  in  the  voices  of  his  friends,  a  note 
that  was  new.  In  the  manner  of  the  men  who  had 
come  to  talk  with  him  on  matters  of  business,  he  had 
felt  a  something  that  he  had  never  felt  before.  And 
he  had  seen  the  auctioneer — a  lifelong  friend  of  his 
father — standing  on  the  front  porch  of  his  boyhood 
home  and  had  heard  him  cry  the  low  spoken  bids  and 
answer  the  nodding  heads  of  the  buyers  in  a  voice  that 
was  hoarse  with  something  more  than  long  speaking 
in  the  open  air.  And  then — and  then — at  last  had 
come  the  sharp  blow  of  the  hammer  on  the  porch 
railing  and  from  the  trembling  lips  of  the  old  auc 
tioneer  the  word :  "Sold." 

It  was  as  though  that  hammer  had  fallen  on  the* 
17 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

naked  heart  of  the  boy.  It  was  as  thorr':  the  auc 
tioneer  had  shouted:  "Dead." 

And  so  the  time  had  come,  a  week  later,  when  he 
must  go  for  a  last  look  at  the  home  that  was  his  no 
longer.  Very  slowly  he  had  walked  about  the  yard ; 
pausing  a  little  before  each  tree  and  bush  and  plant ; 
putting  forth  his  hand,  at  times,  to  touch  them  softly 
as  though  he  would  make  sure  that  they  were  there 
for  he  saw  them  dimly  through  a  mist.  The  place 
was  strangely  hushed  and  still.  The  birds  and  bees 
and  even  the  butterflies  seemed  to  have  gone  some 
where  far  away.  Very  slowly  he  had  gone  up  the 
steps  to  open  the  front  door.  Very  slowly  he  had 
passed  from  room  to  room  in  the  empty,  silent, 
house.  On  the  kitchen  porch  he  had  paused  again, 
for  a  little,  because  he  could  not  see  the  steps;  then 
had  gone  on  to  the  well,  the  garden,  the  woodhouse, 
the  shop,  the  barn,  and  so  out  into  the  orchard  that 
shaded  the  gently  rising  slope  of  the  hill  beyond  the 
house.  At  the  farther  side  of  the  orchard,  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  he  had  climbed  the  rail  fence  and 
had  seated  himself  on  the  ground  where  he  could 
look  out  and  away  over  the  familiar  meadows  and 
fields  and  pastures. 

A  bobo-link,  swinging  on  a  nearby  bush,  poured 
forth  a  tumbling  torrent  of  silvery  melody.  Behind 

18 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Q.2I*. 

him,  on  tn«_  fence,  a  meadow  lark  answered  with 
liquid  music.  About  him  on  every  side,  in  the  soft 
sunlight,  the  bluebirds  were  flitting  here  and  there, 
twittering  cheerily  the  while  over  their  bluebird 
tasks.  And  a  woodpecker,  hard  at  work  in  the 
orchard  shade,  made  himself  known  by  the  din  of 
his  industry. 

But  the  man,  who  did  not  yet  quite  realize  that 
he  was  a  man,  gave  no  heed  to  these  busy  companions 
of  his  boyhood.  To  him,  it  was  as  though  those  men 
with  their  shovels  had  heaped  that  mound  of  naked, 
yellow,  earth  upon  his  heart.  The  world,  for  him, 
was  as  empty  as  the  old  house  down  there  under  the 
orchard  hill.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  very  still — 
seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  heeding  nothing — 
conscious  only  of  that  dull,  aching,  loneliness — con 
scious  only  of  that  heavy  weight  of  pain. 

A  mile  or  more  away,  beyond  the  fields,  a  moving 
column  of  smoke  from  a  locomotive  lifted  itself  into 
the  sky  above  the  tree  tops  and  streamed  back  a  long, 
dark,  banner.  As  the  column  of  smoke  moved  stead 
ily  on  toward  the  distant  horizon,  the  young  man  on 
the  hilltop  watched  it  listlessly.  Then,  as  his  mind 
outran  the  train  to  the  cities  that  lay  beyond  the 
line  of  the  sky,  his  eyes  cleared,  his  countenance 
brightened,  his  thoughts  went  outward  toward  the 

19 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

'great  world  where  great  men  toil  mightily;  and  the 
long,  dark,  banner  of  smoke  that  hung  above  the 
moving  train  became  to  him  as  a  flag  of  battle  lead 
ing  swiftly  toward  the  front.  Eagerly  now  he 
watched — watched  until,  far  away,  the  streaming 
column  of  smoke  passed  from  sight  around  a  wooded 
hill  and  faint  and  clear  through  the  still  air — a  bugle 
call  to  his  ears — came  the  long  challenging  whistle. 

Then  it  was  that  he  realized  his  manhood — knew 
that  he  was  a  man — and  understood  that  manhood  is 
not  a  matter  of  only  twenty-one  years.  And  then  it 
was — as  he  sat  there  alone  on  the  brow  of  the  little 
hill  with  his  boyhood  years  dead  behind  him  and  the 
years  of  his  manhood  before — that  his  manhood  life 
began,  even  as  the  manhood  life  of  every  man  really 
begins,  with  his  Dreams. 

Indeed  it  is  true  that  all  life  really  begins  in 
dreams.  Surely  the  lover  dreams  of  his  mistress — 
the  maiden  of  her  mate.  Surely  mothers  dream  of 
the  little  ones  that  sleep  under  their  hearts  and 
fathers  plan  for  their  children  before  they  hold  them 
in  their  arms.  Every  work  of  man  is  first  conceived 
in  the  worker's  soul  and  wrought  out  first  in  his- 
dreams.  And  the  wondrous  world  itself,  with  its 
myriad  forms  of  life,  with  its  grandeur,  its  beauty 
and  its  loveliness;  the  stars  and  the  heavenly  bodies 

20 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

of  light  that  crown  the  universe ;  the  marching  of  the 
days  from  the  Infinite  to  the  Infinite ;  the  procession 
of  the  years  from  Eternity  to  Eternity;  all  this, 
indeed,  is  but  God's  good  dream.  And  the  hope  of  im 
mortality — of  that  better  life  that  lies  beyond  the 
horizon  of  our  years — what  a  vision  is  that — what 
a  wondrous  dream — given  us  by  God  to  inspire,  to 
guide,  to  comfort,  to  hold  us  true ! 

With  wide  eyes  the  man  looked  out  upon  a  wide 
world  somewhat  as  a  conquering  emperor,  confident 
in  his  armed  strength,  might  from  a  hilltop  look  out 
over  the  scene  of  a  coming  battle.  He  did  not  see 
the  grinding  hardships,  the  desperate  struggles,  the 
disastrous  losses,  the  pitiful  suffering.  The  dreadful 
dangers  did  not  grip  his  heart.  The  horrid  fear 
of  defeat  did  not  strike  his  soul.  He  did  not  know 
the  dragging  weight  of  responsibility  nor  the  dead 
weariness  of  a  losing  fight.  He  saw  only  the  deeds 
of  mighty  valor,  the  glorious  exhibitions  of  courage, 
of  heroism,  of  strength.  He  felt  only  the  thrill  of 
victories,  the  pride  of  honors  and  renown.  He  knew 
only  the  inspiration  of  a  high  purpose.  He  heard 
only  the  call  to  greatness.  And  it  was  well  that  in  his 
Dreams  there  were  only  these. 

The  splendid  strength  of  young  manhood  stirred 
mightily  in  his  limbs.  The  rich,  red,  blood  of  youth 

21 


THEIR  :  ESTERDAYS 

moved  swiftly  in  his  ve:  s.  His  eager  spirit  shouted 
aloud  in  exultation  of  ie  deeds  that  he  would  do. 
And,  surely,  it  was  no  shame  to  him  that  at  this 
moment,  when  for  the  fi:  t  time  he  realized  his  man 
hood,  this  man,  in  his  secret  heart,  felt  himself  to  be 
a  leader  of  men,  a  conqueror  of  men,  a  savior  of 
men.  It  was  no  shame  to  him  that  he  felt  the  sal 
vation  of  the  world  depending  upon  him. 

And  he  was  right.  Upon  him  and  upon  such  as  he 
the  salvation  of  the  world  does  depend.  But  it  is 
well,  indeed,  that  these  unrecognized,  dreaming, 
saviors  of  the  world  do  not  know,  as  they  dream,  that 
their  crosses,  even  then,  are  being  prepared  for  them. 
It  is  their  salvation  that  they  do  not  know.  It  is  the 
salvation  of  the  world  that  they  do  not  know. 

And  then,  as  one  from  the  deck  of  a  ship  bound 
for  a  foreign  land  looks  back  upon  his  native  shore 
when  the  vessel  puts  out  from  the  harbor,  this  man 
turned  from  his  years  that  were  to  come  to  his  years 
that  were  past  and  from  dreaming  of  his  future 
slipped  back  into  the  dreams  of  his  Yesterdays. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  song  of  the  bobo-link  that  did 
it ;  or  it  may  have  been  the  music  of  the  meadow  lark ; 
or  perhaps  it  was  the  bluebird's  cheerful  notes,  or 
the  woodpecker's  loud  tattoo — whatever  it  was  that 
brought  it  about,  the  man  dreamed  again  the  dreams 

22 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

of  his  boyhood — dreamed  them  even  as  he  dreamed 
the  dreams  of  his  manhood. 

And  there  was  no  one  to  tell  him  that,  in  dreaming, 
his  boyhood  and  his  manhood  were  the  same. 

Once  again  a  boy,  on  a  drowsy  summer  afternoon, 
he  lay  in  the  shade  of  the  orchard  trees  or,  in  the 
big  barn,  sought  the  mow  of  new  mown  hay,  and, 
with  half  closed  eyes,  slipped  away  from  the  world 
that  droned  and  hummed  and  buzzed  so  lazily  about 
him  into  another  and  better  world  of  stirring  adven 
ture  and  brave  deeds.  Once  again,  when  the  sun 
was  hidden  under  heavy  skies  and  a  steady  pouring 
rain  shut  him  in,  through  the  dusk  of  the  attic  he 
escaped  from  the  narrow  restrictions  of  the  house, 
and,  from  his  gloomy  prison,  went  out  into  a  fairy 
land  of  romance,  of  knighthood,  and  of  chivalry. 
Again  it  was  winter  time  and  the  world  was  buried 
deep  under  white  drifts,  with  all  its  brightness  and 
beauty  of  meadow  and  forest  hidden  by  the  cold 
mantle,  and  all  its  music  of  running  brooks  and 
singing  birds  hushed  by  an  icy  hand,  when,  snug  and 
warm  under  blankets  and  comforters,  after  an  even 
ing  of  stories,  he  slipped  away  into  the  wonderland 
of  dreams — not  the  irresponsible,  sleeping,  dreams — 
those  do  not  count — but  the  dreams  that  come  be 
tween  waking  and  sleeping,  wherein  a  boy  dare  do  all 

23 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

the  great  deeds  he  ever  read  about  and  can  be  all  the 
things  that  ever  were  put  in  books  for  boys  to  wish 
they  were. 

Oh,  but  those  were  brave  dreams — those  dreams  of 
his  Yesterdays!  No  cruel  necessity  of  life  hedged 
them  in.  No  wall  of  the  practical  or  possible  set  a 
limit  upon  them.  No  right  or  wrong  decreed  the 
way  they  should  go.  In  his  Yesterdays,  there  were 
fairy  Godmothers  to  endow  him  with  unlimited 
power  and  to  grant  all  his  wishes,  even  unto  moun 
tains  of  golden  wealth  and  vast  caverns  filled  with  all 
manner  of  precious  gems.  In  his  Yesterdays,  there 
were  wicked  giants  and  horrid  dragons  and  evil  beasts 
to  kill,  with  always  a  good  Genii  to  see  that  they 
did  not  harm  him  the  while  he  bravely  took  their 
baleful  lives.  In  his  Yesterdays,  he  was  a  prince  in 
gorgeous  raiment;  an  emperor  with  jeweled  scepter 
and  golden  crown;  a  knight  in  armor,  with  a  sword 
and  proudly  stepping  horse  of  war ;  he  was  a  soldier 
leading  a  forlorn  hope ;  or  a  general,  with  his  plumed 
staff  officers  about  him,  directing  the  battle  from  a 
mountain  top ;  he  was  a  sailor  cast  away  on  a  desert 
island ;  or  a  captain  commanding  his  ship  in  a  storm 
or,  clinging  to  the  shrouds  in  a  smother  of  battle 
flame  and  smoke,  shouting  his  orders  through  a 
trumpet  to  his  gallant  crew;  he  was  a  pirate;  a 

24 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

robber  chief ;  a  red  Indian ;  a  hunter ;  a  scout  of  the 
plains — he  could  be  anything,  in  those  dreams  of  his 
Yesterdays,  anything. 

So,  even  as  the  man,  the  boy  had  dreamed.  But 
the  man  did  not  think  of  it  in  that  way — the  dreams 
of  his  manhood  were  too  real. 

Then  in  his  Yesterdays  would  come,  also,  the 
putting  of  his  dreams  into  action,  for  the  play  of 
children,  even  as  the  works  of  men,  are  only  dreams 
in  action  after  all.  The  quiet  orchard  became  a  vast 
and  pathless  forest  wherein  lurked  wild  beasts  and 
savage  men  ready  to  pounce  upon  the  daring  hunter ; 
or,  perhaps,  it  was  an  enchanted  wood  with  lords  and 
ladies  imprisoned  in  the  trees  while  in  the  carriage 
house — which  was  not  a  carriage  house  at  all  but  a 
great  castle — a  cruel  giant  held  captive  their  beauti 
ful  princess.  The  haymow  was  a  robbers'  cave 
wherein  great  wealth  of  booty  was  stored ;  the  garden, 
a  desert  island  on  which  lived  the  poor  castaway. 
And  many  a  long  summer  hour  the  bold  captain  clung 
to  the  rigging  of  his  favorite  apple  tree  ship  and 
gazed  out  over  the  waving  meadow  sea,  or  the  gen 
eral  of  the  army,  on  his  rail  fence  war  horse,  directed 
the  battle  from  the  hilltop  or  led  the  desperate  charge. 

But  rarely,  in  his  Yesterdays,  could  the  boy  put 
his  dreams  into  successful  action  alone.  Alone  he 

25 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

could  dream  but  to  realize  his  dreams,  he  needs  must 
have  the  help  of  another.  And  so  she  came  to  take 
her  place  in  his  life,  to  help  him  play  out  his  dreams 
— the  little  girl  who  lived  next  door. 

Who  was  she  ?  Why,  she  was  the  beautiful  princess 
held  captive  by  the  giant  in  his  carriage  house  castle 
until  rescued  by  the  brave  prince  who  came  to  her 
through  the  enchanted  wood.  She  was  the  crew  of 
the  apple  tree  ship;  the  robber  band;  the  army  fol 
lowing  her  general  in  his  victorious  charge;  and  the 
relief  expedition  that  found  the  castaway  on  his  des 
ert  island.  Sometimes  she  was  even  a  cannibal  chief, 
or  a  monster  dragon,  or  a  cruel  wild  beast.  And  al 
ways — though  the  boy  did  not  know — she  was  a  good 
fairy  weaving  many  spells  for  his  happiness. 

The  man  remembered  well  enough  the  first  time 
that  he  met  her.  A  new  family  was  moving  into  the 
house  that  stood  just  below  the  garden  and,  from  his 
seat  on  the  gate  post,  the  boy  was  watching  the  big 
wagons,  loaded  with  household  goods,  as  they  turned 
into  the  neighboring  yard.  On  the  high  seat  of  one 
of  the  wagons  was  the  little  girl.  A  big  man  lifted 
her  down  and  the  boy,  watching,  saw  her  run  gaily 
into  the  house.  For  some  time  he  held  his  place, 
swinging  his  bare  legs  impatiently,  but  he  did  not 
see  the  little  girl  come  out  into  the  yard  again.  Then, 

26 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

dropping  to  the  ground,  the  boy  slipped  along  the 
garden  fence  under  the  currant  bushes  to  a  small 
opening  in  the  hedge  that  separated  the  two  places. 
Very  cautiously,  at  first,  he  peered  through  the 
branches.  Then,  upon  finding  all  quiet,  he  grew 
bolder,  and  on  hands  and  knees  crept  part  way 
through  the  little  green  tunnel  to  find  himself,  all 
suddenly,  face  to  face  with  her. 

That  was  the  beginning.  The  end  had  come  sev 
eral  years  later  when  the  family  had  moved  again. 

The  parting,  too,  he  remembered  well  enough.  A 
boy  and  girl  parting  it  was.  And  the  promises — 
boy  and  girl  promises  they  were.  At  first  many 
poorly  written,  awkwardly  expressed,  laboriously 
compiled,  but  warmly  interesting  letters  were  ex 
changed.  Then  the  letters  became  shorter  and 
shorter;  the  intervals  between  grew  longer  and 
longer;  until,  even  as  childhood  itself  goes,  she  had 
slipped  out  of  his  life.  Even  as  the  brave  dreams  of 
his  boyhood  she  had  gone — even  as  his  Yesterdays. 

The  bobo-link  had  long  ago  left  his  swinging 
bush.  The  meadow  lark  had  gone  to  find  his  mate  in 
a  distant  field.  The  twittering  bluebirds  had  finished 
their  tasks.  The  woodpecker  had  ceased  from  his 
labor.  The  sunshine  was  failing  fast.  Faint  and  far 
away,  through  the  still  twilight  air,  came  the  long, 

27 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

clear,  whistle  of  another  train  that  was  following 
swiftly  the  iron  ways  to  the  world  of  men. 

The  man  on  the  hill  came  back  from  his  Yesterdays 
— came  hack  to  wonder:  "where  is  the  little  girl 
now?  Has  she  changed  much?  Her  eyes  would  be 
the  same  and  her  hair — only  a  little  darker  perhaps. 
And  does  she  ever  go  back  into  the  Yesterdays  ?  It 
is  not  likely/'  he  thought,  "no  doubt  she  is  far  too 
busy  caring  for  her  children  and  attending  to  her 
household  duties  to  think  of  her  childhood  days  and 
her  childhood  playmate.  And  what  would  her  hus 
band  be  like  ?"  he  wondered. 

There  was  no  woman  in  the  dreams  of  the  man 
who  that  afternoon,  for  the  first  time,  realized  his 
manhood  and  began  his  manhood  life.  He  dreamed 
only  of  the  deeds  that  he  would  do;  of  the  work  he 
would  accomplish;  of  the  place  he  would  win;  and 
of  the  honors  he  would  receive.  The  little  girl 
lived  for  him  only  in  his  Yesterdays.  She  did  not 
belong  to  his  manhood  years.  She  had  no  place  in 
his  manhood  dreams. 

Slowly  he  climbed  the  rail  fence  again  and, 
through  the  orchard,  went  down  the  hill  toward  the 
house.  But  he  did  not  again  enter  the  house.  He 
went  on  past  the  kitchen  porch  to  the  garden  gate 
where  he  stood,  for  some  minutes,  looking  toward 

28 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

the  hedge  that  separated  the  two  places  and  toward 
the  cherry  tree  that  grew  in  the  corner  of  the  garden 
next  door. 

At  the  big  front  gate  he  paused  again  and  turned 
linger ingly  as  one  reluctant  to  go.  The  old  home  in 
the  twilight  seemed  so  lonely,  so  deserted  by  all  to 
whom  it  had  been  most  kind. 

At  last,  with  a  movement  suggestive  of  a  deter 
mination  that  could  not  have  belonged  to  his  boyhood, 
he  set  his  face  toward  the  world.  Down  the  little 
hill  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  he  went,  walking 
quickly;  past  the  house  where  the  little  girl  had 
lived ;  across  the  creek  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ;  and  on 
up  the  easy  rise  beyond.  And,  as  he  went,  there  was 
on  his  face  the  look  of  a  man.  There  was  in  his 
eyes  a  new  light — the  light  of  a  man's  dream.  E~or 
did  he  once  look  back. 

To-morrow  he  would  leave  the  friends  of  his  boy 
hood  ;  he  would  leave  the  scenes  of  his  Yesterdays ; 
he  would  go  to  work  out  his  dreams — even  as  in  his 
Yesterdays,  he  would  play  them  out — for  the  works 
of  men  are  as  the  plays  of  children  but  dreams  in 
action,  after  all. 

Would  he,  could  he,  play  out  his  manhood  dreams 
alone  2 


29 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

And  the  woman  also,  for  the  first  time,  was  face  to 
face  with  Life  and,  for  the  first  time,  knew  that  she 
was  a  woman. 

For  a  long  while  she  had  seen  her  womanhood  ap 
proaching.  Little  by  little,  as  her  skirts  had  been 
lengthened,  as  her  dolls  had  been  put  away,  as  her 
hair  had  been  put  up,  she  had  seen  her  womanhood 
drawing  near.  But  she  had  always  said  to  herself: 
"when  I  do  not  play  with  dolls,  when  I  can  dress  like 
mother,  and  fix  my  hair  like  mother,  I  will  be  a 
woman."  She  did  not  know,  then,  that  womanhood 
is  a  matter  of  things  very  different  from  these.  Until 
that  night  she  did  not  know.  But  that  night  she 
knew. 

I  cannot  tell  you  the  woman's  name,  nor  where  she 
lived,  nor  any  of  those  things  that  are  commonly 
told  about  women  in  stories.  But,  as  my  story  is 
not  that  kind  of  a  story,  it  will  not  matter  that  I 
cannot  tell.  What  really  matters  to  my  story  is  this : 
the  woman,  that  night,  when,  for  the  first  time,  she 
knew  herself  to  be  a  woman,  began  her  woman  life 
in  dreams.  Because  the  dreams  of  life  are  of  the 
greatest  importance — because  Dreams  are  of  the 
Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of  Life — this  is  my 
story :  that  the  woman  life  of  this  woman,  when  first 
she  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman,  began  in  dreams. 

30 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

It  was  the  time  of  the  first  roses.  For  a  week  or 
more  she  had  been  very  busy  with  a  loving,  tender, 
joyous,  occupation  that  left  her  no  time  to  think  of 
herself.  Her  dearest  friend — her  girlhood's  most 
intimate  companion,  and,  save  for  herself,  the  last 
of  their  little  circle — was  to  be  married  and  she  was 
to  be  bridesmaid. 

They  had  been  glad  days — those  days  of  prepara 
tion — for  she  rejoiced  greatly  in  the  happiness  of  her 
friend  and  had  shared,  as  fully  as  it  was  possible 
for  another  to  share,  the  sweet  sacredness,  the  holy 
mysteriousness,  and  the  proud  triumph  of  it  all.  But 
with  the  gladness  of  those  days,  there  had  come  into 
her  heart  a  strange  quietness  like  the  quietness  of  an 
empty  room  that  is  furnished  and  ready  but  without 
a  tenant. 

At  the  wedding  that  evening  she  had  been  all  that 
a  bridesmaid  should  be,  even  to  the  last  white  ribbon 
and  the  last  handful  of  rice,  for  she  would  that  no 
shadow  of  a  cloud  should  come  over  the  happiness  of 
her  friend.  But  when  the  new-made  husband  and 
wife  had  been  put  safely  aboard  the  Pullman,  and, 
with  the  group  on  the  depot  platform  frantically 
waving  hats  and  handkerchiefs  and  shouting  good 
lucks  and  farewells,  the  train  had  pulled  away,  the 
loneliness  in  her  heart  had  become  too  great  to  hide. 

31 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Her  escort  had  made  smart  jokes  about  her  tears, 
alleging  disappointment  and  envy.  He  was  a  poor, 
shallow,  witless,  fool  who  could  not  understand;  and 
that  he  could  not  understand  mattered,  to  her,  not  at 
all.  She  had  commanded  him  to  take  her  home  and 
at  her  front  door  had  thanked  him  and  sent  him 
away. 

And  then  it  was — in  the  blessed  privacy  of  her  own 
room,  with  the  door  locked  and  the  shades  drawn 
close,  with  her  wedding  finery  thrown  aside  and  the 
need  of  self-repression  no  longer  imperative — that, 
as  she  sat  in  a  low  chair  before  the  fire,  she  looked, 
for  the  first  time,  boldly  at  Life  and,  for  the  first 
time,  knew  that  she  was  a  woman — knew  that  woman 
hood  was  not  a  matter  of  long  skirts,  of  hair  dressing, 
and  the  putting  away  of  dolls. 

She  was  tired,  very  tired,  from  the  responsibilities 
and  excitement  of  the  day  but  she  did  not  feel  that 
she  could  sleep.  From  the  fire,  she  looked  up  to  the 
clock  that  ticked  away  so  industriously  on  the  mantle. 
It  was  a  little  clock  with  a  fat,  golden,  cupid  grasping 
the  dial  in  his  chubby  arms  as  though  striving  to 
do  away  with  time  when  he  might  better  have  been 
busy  with  his  bow  and  arrows.  The  hands  of  the 
clock  pointed  nearly  midnight.  The  young  woman 
looked  into  the  fire  again. 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Already  her  girl  friend  had  been  a  wife  several 
hours — a  wife.  Already  the  train  was  miles  away 
bearing  the  newly  wedded  ones  to  their  future  home 
— their  home.  The  hours  would  go  swiftly  into  days, 
the  days  into  weeks  and  months  and  years,  and  there 
would  be  boys  and  girls — their  children.  And  the 
years  would  go  swiftly  as  the  days  and  there  would 
be  the  weddings  of  their  sons  and  daughters  and  then 
— the  children  of  their  children. 

And  the  woman  who  that  night  knew  that  she 
was  a  woman — the  woman  whose  heart,  as  she  sat 
alone  before  the  fire,  was  even  as  an  empty  room — a 
room  that  is  furnished  and  ready  but  without  a 
tenant — what,  this  woman  asked  herself,  would  the 
years  bring  her?  The  years  of  her  childhood  and 
girlhood  were  past.  What  of  her  womanhood  years 
that  were  to  come  ? 

There  are  many  doors  in  the  life  of  these  modem 
days  at  which  a  woman  may  knock  with  hope  *f 
being  admitted;  and  this  woman,  as  she  sat  alone 
before  her  fire  that  night,  paused  before  them  all — 
all  save  two.  Two  doors  she  saw  but  did  not  pause 
before;  and  one  of  them  was  idleness  and  pleasure. 
And  one  other  door  there  is  that  stands  open  wide 
so  that  there  is  no  need  to  knock  for  admittance. 
Before  this  wide  open  door  the  woman  paused  a  long 

33 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

time.  It  is  older  than  the  other  doors.  It  is  very, 
very,  old.  Since  the  beginning  it  has  never  been 
closed.  But  though  it  stood  open  so  wide  and  there 
was  no  need  to  knock  for  admittance,  still  the  woman 
could  not  enter  for  she  was  alone.  ~No  woman  may 
enter  that  old,  old,  open  door,  alone. 

Three  times  before  she  had  stood  before  that 
ancient  door  and  had  been  urged  to  cross  the  thresh 
old  ;  but  always  she  had  hesitated,  had  held  back,  and 
turned  away.  She  wondered  if  always  she  would 
hesitate,  if  always  she  would  turn  away;  or  would 
some  one  come  with  whom  she  could  gladly,  joyously, 
confidently,  cross  the  threshold.  She  could  not  say. 
She  could  only  wait.  And  while  she  waited  she  would 
knock  at  one  of  the  other  doors.  She  would  knock 
because  she  must.  The  custom  of  the  age,  necessity, 
circumstances,  forced  her  to  knock  at  one  of  those 
doors  that,  in  the  life  of  these  modern  days,  opens 
to  women  who  seek  admittance  alone. 

I  cannot  tell  just  what  the  circumstances  of  the 
woman's  life  were  nor  why  it  was  necessary.  ~Nor 
does  it  in  the  least  matter  that  I  cannot  tell.  The 
necessity,  the  circumstances,  have  nothing  to  do  with 
my  story  save  this:  that,  whatever  they  were,  I  am 
quite  sure  they  ought  not  to  have  been.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  any  circumstance,  or  necessity,  or  custom, 

34 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

that  forces  a  woman  who  knows  herself  to  be  a  woman 
to  seek  admittance  at  any  one  of  those  doors  through 
which  she  must  enter  alone  is  not  right.  This  it  is 
that  belongs  to  my  story:  the  woman  did  not  wish 
to  enter  the  life  that  lies  on  the  other  side  of  those 
doors  through  which  she  must  go  alone. 

Alone  in  her  room  that  night,  with  the  shades 
drawn  close  and  the  only  light  the  light  of  the  dancing 
fire,  this  woman  who,  for  the  first  time,  knew  herself 
to  be  a  woman,  did  not  dream  of  a  life  on  the  other 
side  of  those  doors  at  which  she  must  ask  admittance. 
She  dreamed  of  a  future  beyond  the  old,  old,  door 
that  has  stood  open  wide  since  the  beginning. 

And  it  was  no  shame  to  her  that  she  so  dreamed, 
It  was  no  shame  that  she  called  before  her,  one  by 
one,  those  who  had  asked  her  to  cross  with  them  the 
threshold  and  those  who  might  still  ask  her.  It  was 
no  shame  that,  while  her  heart  said  always,  "no,"  she 
still  waited — waited  for  one  whom  she  knew  not  but 
only  knew  that  she  would  know  him  when  he  came. 
And  it  was  no  shame  to  her  that,  even  while  this  was 
so,  she  saw  herself  in  the  years  to  come  a  wife  and 
mother.  In  the  glowing  heart  of  the  fire  she  saw  her 
home  warm  with  holy  love,  bright  with  sacred  com 
panionship.  In  the  dancing  flames  she  saw  her  chil 
dren — happy,  beautiful,  children.  Nor  did  she  in 

35 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

lier  dreams  fear  the  flickering  shadows  that  came  and 
went  for  in  the  dusk  of  the  room  she  felt  the  dear 
presence  of  that  one  who  was  to  he  her  other  self; 
who  was  to  he  to  her  strength  in  her  weakness,  hope  in 
her  sadness,  and  comfort  in  her  mourning. 

It  is  well  indeed  that  the  shadows  of  life  hring  no 
fears  into  our  dreams  else  we  would  not  dare  to 
dream  and  life  itself  would  lose  its  purpose  and  its 
meaning. 

So  the  woman  saw  her  future,  not  in  the  shadows 
that  came  and  went  upon  the  wall,  hut  in  the  glowing 
heart  of  the  fire.  And,  as  she  dreamed  her  dreams 
of  womanhood,  her  face  grew  beautiful  with  a  tender, 
thoughtful,  beauty  that  is  given  only  to  those  women 
who  dream  such  dreams.  With  the  realization  of 
her  womanhood  and  the  beginning  of  her  woman  life, 
her  lips  curved  in  a  smile  that  was  different  from  the 
smile  of  girlhood  and  there  came  into  her  eyes  a  light 
that  was  never  there  before.  And  then,  as  one  setting 
out  on  a  long  journey  might  turn  back  for  a  last  fare 
well  view  of  loved  familiar  scenes,  she  turned  to 
go  back  for  a  little  into  her  Yesterdays. 

There  was  a  home  in  those  Yesterdays  and  there 
was  a  mother — a  mother  who  lived  now  in  a  better 
home  than  any  of  earth's  building.  A  father  she 
had  never  known  but  there  was  a  big,  jolly,  uncle 

36 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

who  had  done  and  was  doing  yet  all  that  an  uncle 
of  limited  means  could  do  to  take  her  father's  place  in 
the  life  of  his  sister's  only  child.  And  there  was 
sunshine  in  her  Yesterdays — bright  sunshine — un 
clouded  by  city  smoke ;  and  flowers  unstained  by  city 
grime;  and  blue  skies  unmarred  by  city  buildings; 
and  there  were  beautiful  trees  and  singing  birds  and 
broad  fields  in  her  Yesterdays.  Also  there  were 
dreams — such  dreams  as  only  those  who  are  very 
young  or  very  wise  dare  to  dream. 

It  may  have  been  the  firelight  that  did  it;  it  may 
have  been  the  vision  of  her  children  who  lived  only 
in  the  life  that  she  saw  beyond  the  old,  old,  open 
door:  or  perhaps  it  was  the  wedding  finery  that  lay 
over  a  nearby  chair :  or  the  familiar  tick,  tick,  tick,  of 
the  clock  in  the  arms  of  the  fat  cupid  who  neglected 
his  bow  and  arrows  in  a  vain  attempt  to  do  away  with 
time — whatever  it  was  that  brought  it  about,  the 
woman  dreamed  again  the  dreams  of  childhood — 
dreamed  them  even  as  she  dreamed  those  first  dreams 
of  her  womanhood. 

And  no  one  was  there  to  tell  her  that  the  dreams 
of  her  girlhood  and  of  her  womanhood  were  the 
same. 

Again,  on  a  long  summer  afternoon,  as  she  kept 
house  in  a  snug  corner  of  the  vine  shaded  porch,  she 

37 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

was  really  the  mistress  of  a  grand  mansion  that  was 
furnished  with  beautiful  carpets  and  furniture,  china 
and  silver,  books  and  pictures.  And  in  that  mansion 
she  received  her  distinguished  guests  and  entertained 
her  friends  with  charming  grace  and  dignity,  even  as 
she  set  her  tiny  play  table  with  dishes  of  thimble 
size  and  served  tea  and  cakes  to  her  play  lady 
friends.  Again,  as  she  rocked  her  dollies  to  sleep 
beside  the  evening  fire  and  tucked  them  into  their 
beds  with  a  little  mother  kiss  for  each,  there  were 
dreams  of  merry  boys  and  girls  who  should  some  day 
call  her  mother.  And  there  were  dreams  of  fine 
dresses  and  jewels  the  while  she  stitched  tiny  gar 
ments  for  her  newest  child  who  had  come  to  her  with 
no  clothing  at  all,  or  fashioned  a  marvelous  hat  for 
another  whose  features  were  but  a  smudge  of  paint 
and  whose  hair  had  been  glued  on  so  many  times 
that  it  was  far  past  combing  and  a  hat  was  a  neces 
sity  to  hide  the  tangled  mat.  And  sometimes  she  was 
a  princess  shut  up  in  a  castle  tower  and  a  noble 
prince,  who  wore  golden  armor  and  rode  a  great  war 
horse,  would  come  to  woo  her  and  she  would  ride 
away  with  him  through  the  deep  forest  followed  by  a 
long  procession  of  lords  and  ladies,  of  knights  and 
squires  and  pages.  Or,  perhaps,  she  would  be  a  home 
less  girl  in  pitiful  rags  who,  because  of  her  great 

38 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

beauty,  would  be  stolen  by  gypsies  and  sold  to  a 
cruel  king  to  be  kept  in  a  dungeon  until  rescued 
by  a  brave  soldier  lover. 

And,  in  her  Yesterdays,  the  master  of  the  dream 
home  over  which  she  was  mistress — the  father  oi 
her  dream  children — the  prince  with  whom  she  rode 
away  through  the  forest — the  soldier  lover  who  res 
cued  her  from  the  dungeon — and  the  hero  of  many 
other  adventures  of  which  she  was  the  heroine — 
was  always  the  same.  Outside  her  dreams  he  was 
a  sturdy,  brown  cheeked,  bare  legged,  little  boy  who 
lived  next  door.  But  what  a  man  is  outside  a 
woman's  dreams  counts  for  little  after  all — even 
though  that  woman  be  a  very  small  and  dainty  little 
woman  with  a  very  large  family  of  dolls. 

The  woman  remembered  so  well  their  first  meeting. 
It  was  at  the  upper  end  of  the  garden  near  the 
strawberry  beds  and  he  was  creeping  toward  her  on 
hands  and  knees  through  a  hole  in  the  hedge  that 
separated  the  two  places.  How  she  had  jumped 
when  she  first  caught  sight  of  him !  How  he  had 
started  and  turned  as  if  to  escape  when  he  saw  her 
watching  him!  How  shyly  they  had  approached 
each  other  with  the  first  timid  offerings  of  friend 
ship! 

Many,  many,  times  after  that  did  he  come  to  her 

39 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

through  the  opening  in  the  hedge.  Many,  many, 
times  did  she  go  to  him.  And  he  came  in  many  dis 
guises.  In  many  disguises  she  helped  him  put  his 
dreams  into  action.  But  always,  to  her,  he  was  a 
hero  to  be  worshiped,  a  leader  to  he  followed,  a  mas 
ter  to  be  obeyed.  Always  she  was  very  proud  of  him 
— of  his  strength  and  courage — of  the  grand  deeds  he 
wrought — and  of  the  great  things  that  he  would  some 
day  do.  And  sometimes — the  most  delightful  times 
of  all — at  her  wish,  he  would  help  her,  in  his  master 
ful  way,  to  play  out  her  dreams.  And  then,  though 
he  liked  being  an  Indian  or  a  robber  or  a  soldier 
best,  he  would  be  a  model  husband  and  help  her  with 
the  children;  although  he  did,  at  times,  insist  upon 
punishing  them  rather  more  than  she  thought  neces 
sary.  But  when  the  little  family  was  ill  with  the 
measles  or  scarlet  fever  or  whooping  cough  no  dream 
husband  could  have  been  more  gentle,  more  thought 
ful,  or  more  wise,  in  his  attention. 

And  once  they  had  played  a  wedding. 

The  woman  whose  heart  was  as  an  empty  room 
stirred  in  her  chair  uneasily  as  one  who  feels  the 
gaze  of  a  hidden  observer.  But  the  door  was  locked, 
the  shades  drawn  close,  and  the  only  light  was  the 
flickering  light  of  the  fire.  The  night  without  was 
very  dark  and  still.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  sleep- 

40 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

ing  house — no  sound  save  the  steady  tick,  tick,  tick, 
of  the  time  piece  in  the  chubby  arms  of  the  fat  cupid 
on  the  mantle. 

And  once  they  had  played  a  wedding. 

It  was  when  her  big,  jolly,  uncle  was  married. 
The  boy  and  the  girl  were  present  at  the  ceremony 
and  she  wore  a  wonderful  new  dress  while  the  boy, 
scrubbed  and  combed  and  brushed,  was  arrayed  in 
his  best  clothes  with  shoes  and  stockings.  There 
were  flowers  and  music  and  good  things  to  eat  and 
no  end  of  laughter  and  gay  excitement ;  and  the  jolly 
uncle  looked  so  big  and  fine  and  solemn;  and  the 
bride,  in  her  white  veil,  was  so  like  a  princess  in  one 
of  the  dreams ;  that  the  little  girl  was  half  frightened 
and  felt  a  queer  lump  in  her  throat  as  she  clung  to 
her  mother's  hand.  And  there  was  a  strange  cere 
mony  in  which  the  minister,  in  his  gown,  read  out 
of  a  book  and  said  a  prayer  and  asked  questions ;  and 
the  uncle  and  the  princess  answered  the  questions; 
and  the  uncle  put  a  ring  on  the  finger  of  the  princess ; 
and  the  minister  said  that  they  were  husband  and 
wife.  And  then  there  were  kisses  while  everybody 
laughed  and  cried  and  shook  hands;  and  some  one 
told  the  little  girl  that  the  princess  was  her  new 
auntie ;  and  her  uncle  caught  her  up  in  his  big  arms 
and  was  his  own  jolly  self  again.  It  was  all  very 

41 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

fine  and  strange  and  impressive  to  their  childish 
eyes;  and  so,  of  course,  the  very  next  day,  the  boy 
and  the  girl  played  a  wedding. 

It  was  up  in  that  quiet  corner  of  the  garden,  near 
the  hedge,  and  the  cherry  tree  was  in  bloom  and 
showered  its  delicate  blossoms  down  upon  them  with 
every  puff  of  air  that  stirred  the  branches ;  while,  in 
the  hedge  nearby,  a  little  brown  bird  was  putting  the 
finishing  touch  to  a  new  nest.  The  boy's  shepherd 
dog,  who  sat  up  when  you  told  him,  was  the  min 
ister  ;  and  all  the  dollies  were  there,  dressed  in  their 
finest  gowns.  The  little  girl  was  very  serious  and 
again,  half  frightened,  felt  that  queer  lump  in  her 
throat  as  she  promised  to  be  his  wife.  And  the  boy 
looked  very  serious,  too,  as  he  placed  a  little  brass 
ring  upon  her  finger  and,  speaking  for  the  brown 
eyed,  shaggy  coated,  minister,  said:  "I  pronounce 
you  husband  and  wife  and  anything  that  God  has 
done  must  never  be  done  any  different  by  anybody 
forever  and  ever,  Amen."  And  then — because  there 
was  no  one  else  present  and  they  both  felt  that  the 
play  would  not  be  complete  without — then,  he  had 
kissed  her,  and  they  were  both  very,  very,  happy. 

So  it  was  that,  in  the  quiet  secrecy  of  her  dimly 
lighted  room,  the  woman  who  that  night  knew  herself 


42 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

to  be  a  woman,  felt  her  cheeks  hot  with  blushes  and 
upon  her  hot  cheeks  felt  her  tears. 

So  it  was  that  she  came  back  from  her  Yesterdays 
to  wonder :  where  was  the  boy  now  ?  What  kind  of 
a  man  had  he  grown  to  be  ?  Was  he  making  his  way 
to  fame  and  wealth  or  laboring  in  some  humble  posi 
tion  ?  Had  he  a  home  with  wife  and  children  ?  Did 
he  ever  go  back  into  the  Yesterdays?  Had  he  for 
gotten  that  wedding  under  the  cherry  tree?  When 
the  one  with  whom  she  would  go  through  the  old,  old, 
door  into  the  life  of  her  womanhood  dreams  should 
come,  would  it  matter  if  the  hero  of  her  childhood 
dreams  went  in  with  them  ?  He  could  be  no  rival 
to  that  one  who  was  to  come  for  he  lived  only  in  the 
Yesterdays  and  the  Yesterdays  could  not  come  back. 
The  fat  little  cupid  on  the  mantle  neglected  his  bow 
and  arrows  in  vain ;  he  could  not  do  away  with  time. 

Very  slowly  the  woman  prepared  for  her  rest  and, 
when  she  was  ready,  knelt  in  the  soft  dusk  of  her 
room,  a  virgin  in  white  to  pray.  And  God,  I  know, 
understood  why  her  prayer  was  confused  and  uncer 
tain  with  longings  she  could  not  express  even  to 
him  who  said :  "Except  ye  become  as  little  children." 
God,  I  know,  understood  why  this  woman,  who  that 
night,  for  the  first  time,  knowing  herself  to  be  a 


43 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

woman  had  dreamed  a  true  woman's  dream — God,  I 
know,  understood  why,  as  she  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the 
quiet  darkness,  she  stretched  forth  her  empty  arms 
and  almost  cried  aloud. 

In  to-morrow's  light  it  would  all  be  gone,  but  that 
night — that  night — her  womanhood  dreams  of  the 
future  were  real — real  even  as  the  girlhood  dreams 
of  her  Yesterdays. 


44 


OCCUPATION 

"  a  small,  bare,  room  in  a  cheap  city 
boarding  house,  the  man  cowered  like  a 
wild  thing,  wounded,  neglected,  afraid; 
while  over  him,  gaunt  and  menacing, 
cruel,  pitiless,  insistent,  stood  a  dreadful  need — the 
need  of  Occupation — the  need  of  something  to  do. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  danger  so  menacing 
as  the  danger  of  idleness:  there  is  no  privation  so 
cruel,  no  suffering  so  pitiful,  as  the  need  of  Occupa 
tion  :  there  is  no  demand  so  imperative,  no  necessity 
so  dreadful,  as  the  want  of  something  to  do. 

Occupation  is  the  very  life  of  Life.  As  nature 
abhors  a  vacuum  so  life  abhors  idleness.  To  be  is 
to  be  occupied.  Even  though  one  spend  his  days 
in  seeking  selfish  pleasures  still  must  he  occupy  him 
self  to  live,  for  the  need  of  something  to  do  is  most 
imperative  upon  those  who  strive  hardest  to  do 
nothing.  As  life  and  the  deeds  of  men  are  born  in 
dreams  so  life  itself  is  Occupation.  A  man  is  the 
thing  he  does.  What  the  body  is  to  the  spirit ;  what 
the  word  is  to  the  thought;  what  the  sunshine  is  to 

45 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

i 

the  sun;  Occupation  is  to  Dreams.  One  of  the 
Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of  Life  is  Occupation. 

From  the  cherry  tree  in  the  upper  corner  of  the 
garden  near  the  hedge,  the  cherries  had  long  ago 
been  gathered.  The  pair  of  brown  birds  had  reared 
their  children  and  were  beginning  to  talk  with  their 
neighbors  and  kinfolk  about  their  winter  home  in  the 
south.  In  the  orchard  on  the  hill  back  of  the  house, 
the  late  fruit  was  hanging,  full  ripe,  upon  the  bend 
ing  boughs.  From  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where  the 
man  had  sat  that  afternoon  when,  for  the  first  time, 
he  faced  Life  and  knew  that  he  was  a  man,  the  fields 
from  which  the  ripened  grain  had  been  cut  lay  in  the 
distance,  great  bars  and  blocks  and  patches  of  golden 
yellow,  among  the  still  green  pastures  and  meadows 
and  the  soft  brown  strips  of  the  fall  plowing.  In  the 
woods,  the  squirrels  were  beginning  to  take  stock  of 
the  year's  nut  crop  and  to  make  their  estimates  for 
the  winter's  need,  preparing,  the  while,  their  store 
houses  to  receive  the  precious  hoard.  And  over  that 
new  mound  in  the  cemetery,  the  grass  fairies  had 
woven  a  coverlid  thick  and  firm  and  fine  as  though, 
in  sweet  pity  of  its  yellow  nakedness,  they  would 
shield  it  from  the  winds  that  already  had  in  them  a 
hint  that  summer's  reign  was  past. 

But  all  this  was  far,  very  far,  from  where,  in  his 
46 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

small  bare  room,  the  man  crouched  frightened  and 
dismayed.  The  rush  and  roar  of  the  crowded  trains 
on  the  elevated  road  outside  his  window  shook  the 
casement  with  impatient  fury.  The  rumbling  thun 
der  of  the  heavily  loaded  subway  trains  jarred  the 
walls  of  the  building.  The  rattle  and  whirr  of  the 
overflowing  surface  cars  rose  sharply  above  the  hum 
and  din  of  the  city  streets.  To  the  man  who  asked 
only  a  chance,  only  a  place,  only  room  to  stand  and 
something — anything — to  do,  it  was  maddening.  A 
blind,  impotent,  fury  took  possession  of  him.  He 
clenched  his  fists  and  cursed  aloud. 

But  the  great,  crowded,  world  heeded  his  curses 
as  little  as  it  noticed  him  and  he  fell  again  into  the 
silence  of  his  hopelessness. 

Out  from  the  sheltered  place  of  his  dreams  the 
man  had  come  into  the  busy  world  of  deeds — into 
the  world  where  those  who,  like  himself,  had 
dreamed,  were  putting  their  dreams  into  action. 
Out  from  the  years  of  his  boyhood  he  had  come  into 
the  years  of  his  manhood — out  from  the  scenes  of  his 
Yesterdays  into  the  scenes  of  his  to-days. 

For  weeks,  with  his  young  strength  stirring  might 
ily  within  him  and  his  rich,  red,  blood  hot  in  his 
veins,  he  had  been  crying  out  to  the  world:  "Make 
way  for  me.  Give  me  a  place  that  I  may  work 

47 


THEIK  YESTEBDAYS 

out  my  dreams.  Give  me  something  to  do."  For 
weeks,  he  had  been  trying  to  convince  the  world  that 
it  needed  him.  But  the  busy,  happy,  world — the  idle, 
dreaming,  world — the  discontented,  sullen,  world — 
was  not  so  easily  convinced.  His  young  strength  and 
his  red  blood  did  not  seem  to  count  for  as  much  as 
they  should.  His  confidence  and  his  courage  did 
not  seem  to  impress.  His  high  rank  in  the  boyhood 
world  did  not  entitle  him  to  a  like  position  among 
men.  His  graduating  address  had  made  no  stir  in  the 
world  of  thought.  His  athletic  record  had  caused 
no  comment  in  the  world  of  industry.  His  coming 
did  not  disturb  the  world  of  commerce. 

A  few  he  found  who  wrought  with  all  the  vigor 
and  enthusiasm  of  their  dreaming.  These  said: 
"What  have  you  done  that  we  should  make  room 
for  you?  Prove  yourself  first  then  come  to  us." 
Many  he  saw  who  had  wearied  of  the  game  and 
were  dreaming  new  dreams.  These  said :  "We  our 
selves  are  without  Occupation.  There  are  not  places 
enough  for  all.  Stand  aside  and  give  us  room." 
Many  others  there  were  who,  with  dreams  forgotten, 
labored  as  dull  cattle,  goaded  by  brute  necessity, 
with  no  vision,  no  purpose,  no  hope,  to  make  of  their 
toil  a  blessing.  And  these  laughed  at  him  with 


48 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

vicious  laughter,  saying:  "Why  should  anyone  want 
anything  to  do  ?" 

So  the  man  in  those  days  saw  his  dreams  going 
from  him — saw  his  bright  visions  growing  dim.  So 
he  came  to  feel  that  his  young  strength  was  of  no 
value;  that  his  red  blood  was  worthless;  that  his 
courage  was  vain.  So  his  confidence  was  shaken ;  his 
faith  was  weakened ;  his  hope  grew  faint.  He  came 
to  feel  that  the  things  that  he  had  dreamed  were 
already  all  wrought  out — that  there  were  no  more 
great  works  to  be  done — that  all  that  could  be  done 
was  being  accomplished — that  in  all  the  world  there 
was  nothing  more  for  a  man  to  do.  Disappointed, 
discouraged,  disheartened,  weary  and  alone,  he  told 
himself  that  he  had  come  too  late — that  in  all  the 
world  there  was  nothing  more  for  a  man  to  do. 

He  did  not  look  out  upon  the  world,  now,  as  a 
conquering  emperor,  confident  in  his  armed  strength, 
might  look  over  the  field  of  a  coming  battle.  He  did 
not  dream,  now,  of  victories,  of  honors,  and  renown. 
He  did  not,  now,  see  himself  a  savior  of  the  world. 
The  world  had  stretched  this  man  also  upon  the  cross 
that  it  has  always  ready  for  such  as  he. 

It  was  not  the  man's  pressing  need  that  hurt  him 
so — gladly  he  would  have  suffered  for  his  dreams. 


49 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

It  was  not  for  privation  and  hardships  that  he  cared 
— proudly  he  would  have  endured  those  for  his 
dreams.  Nor  was  it  loneliness  and  neglect  that  made 
him  afraid — he  was  willing  to  work  out  his  dreams 
alone.  That  which  sent  him  cowering  like  a  wounded, 
wild  thing  to  his  room  was  this :  he  felt  that  his 
strength,  his  courage,  his  willingness,  his  purpose, 
were  as  nothing  in  the  world.  That  which  fright 
ened  him  with  dreadful  fear  was  this:  he  felt  that 
his  dreams  were  going  from  him.  That  for  which 
he  cared  was  this :  he  felt  that  ha  was  too  late.  This 
was  the  cross  upon  which  the  world  stretched  him — 
the  cross  of  enforced  idleness — the  cross  of  nothing 
to  do. 

It  is  not  strange  that  in  his  lonely  suffering  the 
man  sought  to  escape  by  the  only  way  open  to  him — 
the  way  that  led  to  his  Yesterdays.  There  was  a 
welcome  for  him  there.  There  was  a  place  for  him. 
He  was  wanted  there.  There  his  life  was  held  of 
value.  It  is  not  at  all  strange  that  he  went  back.  As 
one  flees  from  a  desolate,  burning,  desert  waste,  to  a 
land  of  shady  groves  and  fruitful  gardens,  of  cool 
waters  and  companionable  friends,  so  this  man  fled 
from  his  days  that  were  into  his  days  that  were  gone 
— so  he  went  back  into  his  Yesterdays. 

It  may  have  been  the  soft  dusk  of  the  twilight  hour 
50 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

that  did  it :  or  it  may  have  been  the  loneliness  of  his 
heart :  or,  perhaps,  it  was  the  picture  he  found  in  his 
trunk  as  he  searched  among  his  few  things  trying  to 
decide  what  next  he  should  take  to  the  pawn  shop. 
Whatever  it  was  that  brought  it  about,  the  man  was  a 
boy  again  in  the  boyhood  world  of  his  Yesterdays. 

And  it  happened  that  the  day  in  his  Yesterdays 
to  which  the  man  went  back  was  one  of  those  days 
when  the  boy  could  find  nothing  to  do.  Every  game 
that  he  had  ever  played  was  played  out.  Every 
source  of  amusement  he  had  exhausted.  There  was 
in  all  his  boyhood  world  nothing,  nothing,  for  him 
to  do. 

The  orchard  was  not  a  trackless  forest  inhabited 
by  fierce,  wild  beasts;  nor  an  enchanted  wood  with 
lords  and  ladies  imprisoned  in  the  trees ;  it  was  only 
an  orchard — a  commonplace  old  orchard — nothing 
more.  Indians  and  robbers  were  stupid  creatures  of 
no  importance  whatever.  There  were  no  fairies,  no 
giants,  no  soldiers  left  in  the  boyhood  world.  The 
rail  fence  war  horse  refused  to  charge.  The  apple 
tree  ship  was  a  wreck  on  the  rocks  of  discontent.  The 
hay  had  all  been  cut  and  stored  away  in  the  barn. 
The  excitement  and  fun  of  the  grain  harvesting  was 
over  and  the  big  stacks  were  waiting  the  threshers. 
It  was  not  time  for  fall  apple  picking  and  the  cider- 

51 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

mill,  nor  to  gather  the  corn,  nor  to  go  nutting.  There 
was  nothing,  nothing,  to  do. 

The  boy's  father  was  busy  with  some  sort  of  work 
in  the  shop  and  told  his  little  son  not  to  bother.  The 
hired  man  was  doing  something  to  the  barnyard  fence 
and  told  the  boy  to  get  out  of  the  way.  A  carpenter 
was  repairing  the  roof  of  the  house  and  the  long 
ladder  looked  inviting  enough,  but,  the  instant  the 
boy's  head  appeared  above  the  eaves,  the  man  shouted 
for  him  to  get  down  and  to  run  and  play.  Even  the 
new  red  calf  refused  to  notice  him  but  continued  its 
selfish,  absorbing,  occupation  with  wobbly  legs  braced 
wide  and  tail  wagging  supreme  indifference.  His 
very  dog  had  deserted  him  and  had  gone  away  some 
where  on  business  of  his  own,  apparently  forgetting 
the  needs  of  his  master.  And  mother — mother  too 
was  busy,  as  busy  as  could  be  with  sweeping  and  dust 
ing  and  baking  and  mending  and  no  end  of  things 
that  must  be  done. 

But  somehow  mother's  work  could  always  wait. 
At  least  it  could  wait  long  enough  for  her  to  look 
lovingly  down  into  the  troubled,  discontented,  little 
face  while  she  listened  to  the  plaintive  whine: 
"There's  nothin'  at  all  to  do.  Mamma,  tell  me — tell 
me  something  to  do." 

Poor  little  boy  in  the  Yesterdays!  Quickly 
52 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

mother's  arm  went  around  him.  Lovingly  she  drew 
him  close.  And  mother's  work  waited  still  as  she 
considered  the  serious  problem.  There  was  no  feel 
ing  of  not  being  wanted  in  the  boy's  heart  then.  As 
he  looked  up  at  her  he  felt  already  renewed  hope  and 
quickening  interest. 

Then  mother's  face  brightened,  in  a  way  that 
mother  faces  do,  and  the  boy's  eyes  began  to  shine  in 
eager  anticipation.  What  should  he  do  ?  Why 
mother  knew  the  very  thing  of  course.  It  was  the 
best — the  very  best — the  most  interesting  thing  in  all 
the  world  for  a  boy  to  do.  He  should  build  a  house 
for  the  little  girl  who  lived  next  door. 

Out  under  the  lilac  bushes  he  should  build  it,  in  a 
pretty  corner  of  the  yard,  where  mother,  from  her 
window,  every  now  and  then,  could  look  out  to  see 
how  well  he  was  doing  and  help,  perhaps,  with  careful 
suggestions.  Mother  herself  would  ask  the  carpenter 
man  for  some  clean,  new  boards,  some  shingles  and 
some  nails.  And  it  would  all  be  a  secret,  between 
just  mother  and  the  boy,  until  the  house  was  finished 
and  ready  and  then  he  should  go  and  bring  the  little 
girl  and  they  would  see  how  surprised  and  glad 
she  would  be. 

It  was  wondrous  magic  those  mothers  worked  in 
the  Yesterdays.  In  a  twinkle,  for  the  boy  who  could 

53 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

find  nothing  to  do,  the  world  was  changed.  In  a 
twinkle,  there  was  nothing  in  all  the  world  worth 
doing  save  this  one  thing — to  build  a  house  for  the 
little  girl  next  door. 

With  might  and  main  he  planned  and  toiled  and 
toiled  and  planned;  building  and  rebuilding  and  re 
building  yet  again.  He  cut  his  fingers  and  pounded 
his  thumb  and  stuck  his  hands  full  of  slivers  and 
minded  it  not  at  all  so  absorbed  was  he  in  this  best  of 
all  Occupations, 

But  keep  it  secret !  First  there  was  father's  smil 
ing  face  close  beside  mother's  at  the  window.  Then 
the  hired  man  chanced  to  pass  and  paused  a  moment 
to  make  admiring  comment.  And,  later,  the  car 
penter  man  came  around  the  corner  of  the  house  and, 
when  he  saw,  offered  a  bit  of  professional  advice  and 
voluntarily  contributed  another  board.  Even  the 
boy's  dog,  as  though  he  had  heard  the  news  that  the 
very  birds  were  discussing  so  freely  in  the  tree  tops, 
came  hurrying  home  to  manifest  his  interest.  Keep 
it  secret!  How  could  the  boy  keep  it  secret!  But 
the  little  girl  did  not  know.  Until  he  was  almost 
ready  to  tell  her,  the  little  girl  did  not  know.  Almost 

he  was  ready  to  tell  her,  when But  that  belongs 

to  the  other  part  of  my  story. 

About  the  man  in  his  bare,  lonely,  room  in  the 
54 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

great  city,  the  world  in  its  madness  raged — strug 
gling,  pushing,  crowding,  jostling,  scrambling — a 
swirling,  writhing,  mass  of  life — but  the  man  did  not 
heed.  On  every  side,  this  life  went  rushing,  roaring, 
rumbling,  thundering,  whirring,  shrieking,  clattering 
by.  But  the  man  noticed  the  world  now  no  more  than 
it  noticed  him.  In  his  Yesterdays  he  had  found  some 
thing  to  do.  He  had  found  the  only  thing  that  a 
man,  who  knows  himself  to  be  a  man,  can  do  in  truth 
to  his  manhood.  Again,  in  his  Yesterdays,  he  was 
building  a  house  for  the  little  girl  who  lived  next 
door — the  little  girl  who  did  not  know. 

Someday  this  childish  old  world  will  grow  weary 
of  its  games  of  war  and  wealth.  Someday  it  will 
lose  interest  in  its  playthings — banks,  and  stocks,  and 
markets.  Someday  it  will  lose  faith  in  its  fairies  of 
fame,  its  giants  of  position  and  power.  Then  will 
the  disconsolate,  forlorn,  old  world  turn  to  Mother 
Nature  to  learn  from  her  that  the  only  Occupation 
that  is  of  real  and  lasting  worth  is  the  one  Occupa 
tion  in  which  all  of  Mother  Nature's  children  have 
fellowship — the  Occupation  of  home  building. 

In  meadow  and  forest  and  field;  in  garden  and 
grove  and  hedge  and  bush;  in  mountain  and  plain 
and  desert  and  sea;  in  hollow  logs;  amid  swaying 
branches;  in  rocky  dens  and  earthy  burrows;  high 

55 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

among  towering  cliffs  and  mighty  crags;  low  in  the 
marsh  grass  and  among  reeds  and  rushes;  in  stone 
walls;  in  fence  corners;  in  tufts  of  grass  and  tiny 
shrubs ;  among  the  flowers  and  swinging  vines ;  every 
where — everywhere — in  all  this  great,  round,  world, 
Mother's  children  all  are  occupied  in  home  building 
— occupied  in  this  and  nothing  more.  This  is  the 
one  thing  that  Mother's  children,  in  all  the  ages  since 
the  beginning,  have  found  worth  doing.  One  way 
ward  child  alone  is  occupied  just  now,  seemingly, 
with  everything  but  home  building.  Man  seems  to 
be  doing  everything  these  days  but  the  one  thing  that 
must  be  the  foundation  work  of  all.  But  never  mind 
— homebuilding  will  be  the  world's  work  at  the  last. 
When  all  the  playthings  of  childhood  and  all  the 
childish  games  of  men  have  failed,  homebuilding 
will  endure.  Occupation  must  in  the  end  mean 
home  building  or  it  is  meaningless. 

And  the  din,  the  confusion,  the  struggle,  the  tur 
moil  of  life — when  it  all  means  to  men  the  building 
of  homes  and  nothing  more ;  when  the  efforts  of  men, 
the  ambitions  of  men,  the  labor  and  toil  of  men  are 
all  to  make  homes  for  the  little  girls  next  door ;  then, 
will  Mother  Nature  smile  upon  her  boys  and  God,  I 
am  sure,  will  smile  upon  them,  too. 

The  man  came  back  from  his  Yesterdays  with  a 
56 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

new  heart,  with  new  courage  and  determination,  and 
the  next  day  he  found  something  to  do. 

I  do  not  know  what  it  was  that  the  man  found  to 
do — that  is  not  my  story. 


It  was  nearly  the  time  of  falling  leaves  when  the 
woman,  who  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman,  knocked 
at  one  of  those  doors,  at  which  she  did  not  wish  to 
knock,  and  was  admitted. 

It  does  not  matter  which  of  the  doors  it  was.  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  work  it  was  that  the  woman 
found  to  do.  What  mattered  to  her — and  to  the 
world  if  only  the  world  would  understand — was  this : 
that  she  was  forced  by  the  customs  of  the  age  and  by 
necessity  to  enter  a  life  that  her  woman  heart  did 
not  desire.  While  her  dreams  were  of  the  life  that 
lies  beyond  the  old,  old,  door  that  has  stood  open  since 
the  beginning ;  while  she  waited  on  the  threshold  and 
longed  to  go  in ;  she  was  forced  to  turn  aside,  to  seek 
admittance  at  one  of  those  other  doors.  This  it  is 
that  matters — matters  greatly.  Perhaps  only  God 
who  made  the  woman  heart  and  who  Himself  set  that 
door  open  wide — perhaps  only  God  knows  how 
greatly  it  matters. 

Of  course,  if  the  woman  had  not  known  herself 
57 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

to  be  a  woman,  it  would  have  made  little  difference 
either  to  her  or  to  the  world. 

And  the  woman  when  she  had  joined  that  great 
company  of  women,  who,  in  these  modern  days  lahor 
behind  the  doors  through  which  they  must  go  alone, 
found  them  to  be  good  women — good  and  brave  and 
true.  And  most  of  them,  she  found,  were  in  that 
great  company  of  workers  just  as  she  was  there — 
just  as  every  woman  who  knows  her  womanhood  is 
there — through  circumstances,  the  custom  of  the  age, 
necessity.  The  only  saving  thing  about  it  all  is  this : 
their  woman  hearts  are  somewhere  else. 

And  the  woman  found  also  that,  while  the  door 
opened  readily  enough  to  her  knock,  she  was  received 
without  a  welcome.  Through  that  other  door,  the 
door  that  God  himself  has  opened,  she  would  have 
entered  into  a  joyous  welcome — she  would  have  been 
received  with  gladness,  with  rejoicing,  with  holiest 
love,  and  highest  honor.  To  her,  in  the  world  that 
lies  beyond  the  old,  old,  door,  would  have  been  ren 
dered  homage  and  reverence  second  only  to  that  given 
to  God  Himself.  There,  she  would  have  been  re 
ceived  as  a  woman  for  her  womanhood;  she  would 
have  been  given  first  place  among  all  created  things. 
But  the  world  into  which  she  entered  alone  did  not  so 
receive  her.  It  received  her  coldly.  Its  manner  said 

58 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

quite  plainly:  "Why  are  you  here?  What  do  you 
want  ?"  It  said :  "There  is  no  sentiment  here,  no 
love,  no  reverence,  no  homage ;  there  is  only  business 
here,  only  law,  only  figures  and  facts." 

This  world  was  not  unkind  to  her,  hut  it  did  not 
receive  her  as  a  woman.  It  could  not.  It  did  not 
value  her  womanhood.  Womanhood  has  no  value 
there.  It  valued  her  clear  brain,  her  physical 
strength,  her  skillful  hands,  her  willing  feet,  her 
ready  wit :  but  her  womanhood  it  ignored.  The  most 
priceless  gift  of  the  Creator  to  his  creatures — the 
one  thing  without  which  all  human  effort  would  be 
in  vain,  no  Christian  prayer  would  be  possible;  the 
one  thing  without  which  mankind  would  perish  from 
the  earth — this  world,  into  which  the  woman  went, 
rejected.  But  the  things  that  belonged  to  her  woman 
hood — the  charm  of  her  manner;  the  beauty  of  her 
face  and  form;  the  appeal  of  her  sex;  the  quick  in 
tuitions  of  her  soul — all  these  this  world  received  and 
upon  them  put  a  price.  They  became  not  forces  to 
be  used  by  her  in  wifehood  and  motherhood  but  com 
mercial  assets,  valued  in  dollars,  worth  a  certain  price 
upon  the  woman  labor  market  in  the  business  world. 

And  the  woman's  heart,  because  she  knew  herself 
to  be  a  woman,  rebelled  at  this  buying  and  selling  the 
things  of  her  womanhood.  These  things  she  rightly 

59 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

felt  to  be  above  price — far,  far,  above  price.  They 
were  the  things  of  her  wifehood  and  motherhood. 
They  were  given  her  to  be  used  by  her  in  love,  in 
mating,  in  bearing  and  rearing  children,  in  the  giving 
of  life  to  the  world. 

The  things  of  a  woman's  womanhood  are  as  far 
above  price  as  life  itself  to  which  they  belong.  Even 
as  color  and  perfume  belong  to  the  flowers;  even  as 
the  music  of  the  birds  belongs  to  the  feathery  song 
sters;  even  as  the  blue  belongs  to  the  sky,  and  the 
light  to  the  stars ;  so  these  graces  of  a  woman  belong 
to  her  and  to  the  mission  of  her  womanhood  are 
sacred.  They  are  hers  to  be  used  in  her  holy  office 
of  womanhood;  by  her  alone,  without  price,  for  the 
glory  and  honor  of  life  and  the  future  of  the  race. 
So  the  woman's  heart  rebelled,  but  secretly,  instinct 
ively,  almost  unconsciously.  Open  rebellion  would 
have  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  remain  in  the 
world  into  which  she  entered  because  of  her  neces 
sity  and  the  custom  of  the  age. 

She  found,  too,  that  this  world  into  which  she  had 
entered  was  very  courteous,  that  it  was  even  consid 
erate  and  kind — as  considerate  and  kind  as  it  was 
possible  to  be — for  it  seemed  to  understand  her  posi 
tion  quite  as  well  as  she  herself  understood  it.  And 


60 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

this  world  paid  her  very  well  for  the  services  she 
was  asked  to  render.  But  it  asked  of  her  no  favors. 
It  accorded  her  no  honors.  It  sought  her  with  no 
offering.  And,  hecause  of  this,  the  woman,  in  the 
heart  of  her  womanhood,  felt  ashamed  and  humili 
ated. 

It  is  the  right  of  womanhood  to  bestow  favors.  It 
is  a  woman's  right  to  be  honored  above  all  creatures 
of  earth.  Since  the  beginning  of  life  itself  her  sex 
has  been  so  honored — has  received  the  offerings  from 
life.  Mankind,  alone,  has  at  times  attempted  to 
change  this  law  but  has  never  quite  succeeded.  Man 
kind  never  can  fully  succeed  in  this  because  woman 
holds  life  itself  in  her  keeping.  So  the  woman  felt 
that  her  womanhood  was  humiliated  and  shamed. 
But  she  hid  this  feeling  also,  hid  it  carefully,  buried 
it  deeply,  because  she  knew  that  if  she  did  not  it 
would  betray  her  and  she  would  not  be  permitted  to 
remain  in  the  world  into  which  necessity  forced  her. 
To  the  woman,  it  seemed  that  the  world  into  which 
she  had  gone,  itself,  felt  her  shame  and  humiliation. 
That,  in  secret,  it  desired  to  ask  of  her;  to  accord 
to  her  honors;  to  seek  her  with  offerings.  But  this 
world  could  not  do  these  things  because  it  dared  not 
recognize  her  womanhood.  When  a  woman  goes  into 


61 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

that  world  into  which  she  must  go  alone,  she  leaves 
her  womanhood  behind.  Her  womanhood  is  not  re 
ceived  there. 

But  most  of  all,  the  thing  that  troubled  the  woman 
was  this:  the  risk  she  ran  in  entering  into  that  life 
behind  the  door  at  which  she  had  sought  admittance. 
She  saw  that  there  was  danger  there — grave  danger — 
to  her  womanhood.  In  the  busy,  ceaseless,  activity  of 
that  life  there  would  be  little  time  for  her  waiting 
beside  the  old,  old,  door.  The  exacting  demands  of 
her  work,  or  profession,  or  calling,  or  business,  would 
leave  little  leisure  for  the  meditation  and  reflection 
that  is  so  large  a  part  of  the  preparation  necessary 
for  entrance  into  that  other  world  of  which  she  had 
dreamed.  Constant  contact  with  the  unemotional 
facts  and  figures  of  that  life  which  sets  a  market 
value  upon  the  sacred  things  of  womanhood  would 
make  it  ever  more  difficult  for  her  to  dream  of  love. 
There  was  grave  danger  that  interest  and  enthusiasm 
in  other  things  would  supplant  her  longing  for  wife- 
hood  and  motherhood.  She  feared  that  in  her  Occu 
pation  she  might  not  know,  when  he  came,  that  one 
who  was  to  cross  the  threshold  with  her  into  the  life 
of  her  dreams — that,  indeed,  he  might  come  and  go 
again  while  she  was  busy  with  other  things.  She 
feared  that  she  would  come  to  accept  the  commercial 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

valuation  of  the  things  that  belonged  to  her  woman 
hood  and  thus  forget  their  higher,  holier,  use  and 
that  the  continued  rejection  of  her  womanhood  would, 
in  time,  lead  her  to  think  of  it  lightly,  as  incidental 
rather  than  supreme.  There  was  real  danger  that 
she  would  lose  her  desire  to  be  sought,  to  give,  to  re 
ceive  offerings ;  that  she  would  cease  to  rebel  secretly ; 
that  she  would  no  longer  feel  humiliated  at  her  posi 
tion.  She  feared  in  short  this  danger — the  gravest 
danger  to  her  womanhood  and  thus  to  all  that  woman 
kind  holds  in  her  keeping — that  she  would  come  to 
feel  contented,  satisfied,  and  happy,  in  being  a  part 
of  the  world  into  which  she  was  forced  to  go  by  the 
custom  of  the  age  and  by  necessity.  Because  this 
woman  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman  she  feared  this. 
If  she  had  not  come  to  know  her  womanhood  she 
would  not  have  feared  it.  Neither  would  it  have 
mattered. 

The  woman  was  thinking  of  these  things  that  Sat 
urday  afternoon  as  she  walked  homeward  from  her 
work.  She  often  walked  to  her  home  on  Saturday 
afternoons,  when  there  was  time,  for  she  was  strong 
and  vigorous,  with  an  abundance  of  good  red  woman 
blood  in  her  veins,  and  loved  the  free  movement  in 
the  open  air. 

Perhaps,  though,  it  is  not  exact  to  say  that  she  was 
63 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

thinking  of  these  things.  The  better  word  would  be 
feeling.  She  was  not  thinking  of  them  as  I  have  set 
them  down :  but  she  was  feeling  them  all.  She  was 
conscious  of  them,  just  as  she  was  conscious  of  the 
dead  brown  leaves  that  drifted  across  her  path, 
though  she  was  not  thinking  of  the  leaves.  She  felt 
them  as  she  felt  the  breath  of  fall  in  the  puff  of  air 
that  drifted  the  leaves :  but  she  did  not  put  what  she 
felt  into  words.  So  seldom  do  the  things  that  women 
feel  get  themselves  put  into  words. 

The  young  woman  had  chosen  a  street  that  led 
in  the  direction  of  her  home  through  one  of  the  city's 
smaller  parks,  and,  as  she  went,  the  people  she  met 
turned  often  to  look  after  her  for  she  was  good  to  look 
at.  She  walked  strongly  but  with  a  step  as  light  as 
it  was  firm  and  free ;  and,  breathing  deeply  with  the 
healthful  exercise,  her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  rosy 
color,  her  eyes  shone,  her  countenance — her  every 
glance  and  movement — betrayed  a  strong  and  perfect 
womanhood — a  womanhood  that,  rightly  understood, 
is  wealth  that  the  race  and  age  can  ill  afford  to 
squander. 

Coming  to  the  park,  she  walked  more  slowly  and, 
after  a  little,  seated  herself  on  a  bench  to  watch  the 
squirrels  that  were  playing  nearby.  The  foliage  had 
already  lost  its  summer  freshness  though  here  and 

64 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

there  a  tree  or  bush  made  brave  attempt  to  retain  its 
garb  of  green.  Not  a  few  brown  leaves  whirled  help 
lessly  about — the  first  of  unnumbered  myriads  that 
soon  would  be  offered  by  the  dying  summer  in  trib 
ute  to  winter's  conquering  power.  The  sun  was  still 
warm  but  the  air  had  in  it  a  subtle  flavor  that  seemed 
a  blending  of  the  coming  season  with  the  season  that 
was  almost  gone. 

Near  the  farther  entrance  to  the  little  park,  a  car 
penter  was  repairing  the  roof  of  a  house  and,  from 
where  she  sat,  the  woman  could  see  the  long  ladder 
resting  against  the  eaves.  A  boy  with  his  shepherd 
dog  came  romping  along  the  walk  under  the  trees  as 
irresponsible  as  the  drifting  leaves.  The  squirrels 
scampered  away;  the  boy  and  dog  whirled  on;  and 
the  woman,  from  the  world  into  which  she  had  en 
tered  because  she  must,  went  far  away  into  the  world 
of  childhood.  From  her  day  of  toil  in  a  world  that 
denied  her  womanhood  she  went  back  into  her  Yester 
days  where  womanhood — motherhood — was  supreme. 
Perhaps  it  was  that  subtle  flavor  in  the  air  that  did 
it ;  or  it  may  have  been  the  boy  and  his  dog  as  they 
whirled  past — care  free  as  the  drifting  brown  leaves ; 
or  perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  the  man  repairing  the 
roof  of  the  house  with  his  long  ladder  resting  against 
the  eaves:  the  woman  herself  could  not  have  told 

65 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

what  it  was,  but,  whatever  it  was,  she  slipped  away 
to  one  of  the  brightest,  happiest,  days  in  all  her 
Yesterdays. 

But,  for  a  little  while,  that  day  was  not  at  all 
bright  and  happy.  It  started  out  all  right  then,  little 
by  little,  everything  went  wrong ;  and  then  it  changed 
again  and  became  one  of  the  best  of  all  her  Yester 
days.  The  day  went  wrong  for  a  little  while  at 
first  because  everything  in  the  house  was  being  taken 
up,  or  taken  down,  beaten,  shaken,  scrubbed  or 
dusted;  everything  was  being  arranged  or  disar 
ranged  and  rearranged  again.  Surely  there  was  never 
such  confusion,  so  it  seemed  to  the  little  girl,  in  any 
home  in  all  the  world.  Every  time  that  she  would  get 
herself  nicely  settled  with  her  dolls  she  would  be 
forced  to  move  again;  until  there  was  in  the  whole, 
busy,  bustling  place  no  corner  at  all  where  she  was 
not  in  somebody's  way.  When  she  would  have  entered 
into  the  confusion  and  helped  to  straighten  things 
out,  the  woman  told  her,  rather  sharply,  to  go  away, 
and  declared  that  her  efforts  to  help  only  made  things 
worse. 

Out  in  the  garden,  at  the  opening  in  the  hedge, 
she  called  and  called  and  waited  and  waited  for  the 
boy.  But  the  boy  did  not  answer.  He  was  too  busy, 
she  thought,  to  care  about  her.  She  felt  quite  sure  that 

66 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

he  did  not  even  want  her  to  help  in  whatever  it  was 
that  he  was  doing.  Perhaps,  she  thought  wistfully, 
peering  through  the  little  green  tunnel,  perhaps  if  she 
could  go  and  find  him  he  might — when  he  saw  how 
miserable  and  lonely  she  was — he  might  be  kind. 
But  to  go  through  the  hedge  was  forbidden,  except 
when  mother  said  she  might. 

Sorrowfully  she  turned  away  to  seek  the  kitchen 
where  the  cook  was  busy  with  the  week's  baking. 
But  the  cook,  when  the  little  girl  offered  to  roll  the 
pie  crust  or  stir  the  frosting  for  the  cake,  was  hurried 
and  cross  and  declared  that  the  little  girl  could  not 
help  but  only  hinder  and  that  it  would  be  better  for 
her  not  to  get  in  the  way. 

Once  more,  in  a  favorite  corner  of  the  big  front 
porch,  she  was  just  beginning  to  find  some  comfort 
with  her  doll  when  the  woman  with  the  broom  forced 
her  to  move  again. 

Poor  little  girl !  What  could  she  do  under  such 
trying  circumstances — what  indeed  but  go  to  mother. 
All  the  way  up  the  long  stairs  she  went  to  where 
mother  was  as  busy  as  ever  a  mother  could  be  doing 
something  with  a  lot  of  things  that  were  piled  all 
over  the  room.  But  mother,  when  she  saw  the  tear 
stained  little  face,  understood  in  a  flash  and  put  aside 
whatever  it  was  that  she  was  doing,  quickly,  and  held 

67 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

the  little  girl,  dolly  and  all,  close  in  her  mother 
arms  until  the  feeling  of  being  in  the  way  and  of  not 
being  wanted  was  all  gone.  And,  when  the  tears 
were  quite  dry,  mother  said,  so  gently  that  it  did  not 
hurt,  "No  dearie,  I'm  afraid  you  can't  help  mother 
now  because  mother's  girl  is  too  little  to  understand 
what  it  is  that  mother  is  doing.  But  I'll  tell  you 
something  that  you  can  do.  Mother  will  give  you 
some  things  from  the  pantry  and  you  may  go  over 
to  see  the  little  boy.  And  I  am  as  sure,  as  sure  can 
be,  that,  when  he  sees  all  the  nice  things  you  have, 
he  will  play  keeping  house  with  you." 

So  the  little  girl  in  the  Yesterdays,  with  her  treas 
ures  from  mother's  pantry,  went  out  across  the  gar 
den  and  through  the  hedge  to  find  the  boy.  Very 
carefully  she  went  through  the  opening  in  the  hedge 
so  that  she  would  lose  none  of  her  treasures.  And 
oh,  the  joy  of  it !  The  splendid  wonder  of  it !  She 
found  that  the  boy  had  built  a  house — all  by  himself 
he  had  built  it — with  real  boards,  and  had  furnished 
it  with  tiny  chairs  and  tables  made  from  boxes.  Com 
plete  it  was,  even  to  a  beautiful  strip  of  carpet  on 
the  floor  and  a  shelf  on  which  to  put  the  dishes. 
Then,  indeed,  when  the  boy  told  her  how  he  had 
made  the  house  for  her — just  for  her — and  how  it 
was  to  have  been  a  surprise;  and  that  she  had  come 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

just  in  time  because  if  she  had  come  sooner  it  would 
have  spoiled  the  fun — the  heart  of  the  little  girl 
overflowed  with  gladness.  And  to  think  that  all  the 
time  she  was  feeling  so  not  wanted  and  in  the  way  the 
boy  was  doing  this  and  all  for  her !  Did  her  mother 
know?  She  rather  guessed  that  she  did;  mothers 
have  such  a  marvelous  way  of  knowing  everything, 
particularly  the  nicest  things. 

So  the  little  girl  gave  the  boy  all  the  treasures 
that  she  had  brought  so  carefully  and  they  had  great 
fun  eating  them  together ;  and  all  the  rest  of  that  day 
they  played  akeephouse."  And  this  is  why  that  day 
was  among  the  best  of  all  the  woman's  Yesterdays. 

Several  men  going  home  from  work  passed  the 
spot  where  the  young  woman  sat.  Then  a  group  of 
shop  girls  followed ;  then  another  group  and,  in  turn, 
two  women  from  an  office  that  did  not  close  early  on 
Saturdays.  After  them  a  young  girl  who  looked  very 
tired  came  walking  alone,  and  then  there  were  more 
men  and  women  in  a  seemingly  endless  procession. 
And  so  many  girls  and  women  there  were  in  the 
procession  that  the  woman,  as  she  came  back  from  her 
Yesterdays,  wondered  who  was  left  to  make  homes 
for  the  world. 

The  sun  was  falling  now  in  long  bars  and  shafts  of 
light  between  the  buildings  and  the  trees,  and  the 


THEIK  YESTEEDAYS 

windows  of  the  house  where  the  man  had  been  fixing 
the  roof  were  blazing  as  if  in  flames.  The  man  had 
taken  down  his  ladder  and  gone  away.  It  was  time 
the  young  woman  was  going  home.  And  as  she 
went,  joining  the  procession  of  laborers,  her  heart  was 
filled  with  longing — with  longing  and  with  hope. 
The  boy  of  her  Yesterdays  lived  only  in  those  days 
that  were  gone.  He  had  no  place  in  the  dreams  of  her 
womanhood.  He  was  only  the  playmate  of  the  little 
girl.  Even  as  those  years  were  gone  the  boy  had 
gone  out  of  her  life.  But  somewhere,  perhaps,  that 
one  who  was  to  go  with  her  through  the  old,  old,  open 
door  was  even  then  building  for  her  a  home — their 
home.  Perhaps,  some  day,  an  all  wise  Mother 
Nature  would  tell  her  to  leave  the  world  that  gave  her 
no  welcome — that  could  not  recognize  her  woman 
hood — that  made  her  heart  rebel  in  humiliation  and 
shame — and  go  to  do  her  woman's  work. 

Very  carefully  would  she  go  when  the  time  came, 
taking  all  the  treasures  of  her  womanhood.  She 
would  go  very  carefully  that  none  of  her  treasures  be 
lost. 


70 


KNOWLEDGE 

HE  green  of  the  pastures  and  the  gold  of 
r~I  1  \\  the  fields  was  buried  so  deeply  under 
'"  banks  of  snow  that  no  one  could  saj: 
"Here  the  cattle  fed  and  the  buttercups 
grew;  there  the  grain  was  harvested;  here  the  corn 
stood  in  shocks;  there  the  daisies  and  meadow  grass 
sheltered  the  nest  of  the  bobo-link."  As  death  calls 
alike  the  least  and  the  greatest  back  to  the  dust  from 
which  they  came,  so  winter  laid  over  the  varied  and 
changing  scenes  of  summer  a  cold,  white,  shroud  of 
wearisome  sameness.  The  birds  were  hundreds  of 
miles  away  in  their  sunny  southland  haunts.  The 
bees,  the  butterflies,  and  many  of  the  tiny  wood  folk, 
were  all  snugly  tucked  in  their  winter  beds,  dream 
ing,  perhaps,  as  they  slept,  of  the  sunshiny  summer 
days.  In  the  garden  the  wind  had  heaped  a  great 
drift  high  against  the  hedge  on  the  boy's  side,  and, 
on  the  little  girl's  side,  the  cherry  tree  in  the  corner 
stood  shivering  in  its  nakedness  with  bare  arms 
uplifted  as  though  praying  for  mercy  to  the  stinging 
cold  wind. 

71 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

In  the  city  the  snow,  as  fast  as  it  fell,  was  stained 
by  soot  and  grime  and  lay  in  the  streets  a  mass  of 
filth.  The  breath  of  the  laboring  truck  horses  arose 
from  their  wide  nostrils  like  clouds  of  steam  and,  in 
the  icy  air,  covered  their  breasts  and  shoulders  and 
sides  with  a  coat  of  white  frost.  The  newsboys  and 
vendors  of  pencils  and  shoestrings  shivered  in  nooks 
and  corners  and  doorways  and,  as  the  people  went 
with  heads  bent  low  before  the  freezing  blast  that 
swirled  through  the  narrow  canyons  between  the  tall 
buildings,  the  snowy  pavement  squeaked  loudly  under 
their  feet. 

And  the  man  who  had  found  something  to  do, 
from  his  Occupation,  began  to  acquire  Knowledge. 
In  doing  things,  he  began  to  know  things. 

But  the  man  had  to  gain  first  a  knowledge  of 
Knowledge.  He  first  had  to  learn  this:  that  a  man 
might  know  all  about  a  thing  without  ever  knowing 
the  thing  itself.  He  had  to  understand  that  Knowl 
edge  is  not  knowing  about  a  thing  but  knowing  the 
thing.  When  first  he  had  dreamed  his  manhood 
dreams,  before  he  had  found  something  to  do,  the  man, 
quite  modestly,  thought  that  he  knew  a  great  deal. 
In  his  school  days,  he  had  exhausted  many  text  books 
and  had  passed  many  creditable  examinations  upon 
many  subjects  and  so  he  had  thought  that  he  knew  a 

72 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

great  deal.  And  he  did.  He  knew  a  great  deal 
about  things.  But  when  he  had  found  something  to 
do,  and  had  tried  to  do  it,  he  found  also  very  quickly 
that,  although  he  knew  so  much  about  the  thing  he 
had  to  do,  he  knew  very,  very,  little  of  the  thing 
itself  and  that  only  knowledge  of  the  thing  itself 
could  ever  help  him  to  realize  his  dreams. 

From  his  Occupation,  he  learned  this  also:  that 
Knowledge  is  not  what  some  other  man  knows  and 
tells  you  but  what  the  thing  that  you  have  found  to 
do  makes  known  to  you.  Knowledge  is  not  told, 
cannot  be  told,  to  one  by  another,  even  though  that 
other  has  it  abundantly  for,  to  the  one  to  whom  it  is 
told,  it  remains  ever  what  someone  else  knows.  What 
the  thing  that  a  man  finds  to  do  makes  known  to 
him,  that  is  Knowledge.  \So  Knowledge  is  to  be 
had  not  from  books  alone  but  rather  from  Life.  So 
idleness  is  a  vicious  ignorance  and  those  who  do  the 
most  are  wisest^ 

Before  he  had  found  something  to  do  the  man  had 
called  himself  a  thinker.  But  when  he  tried  to  do 
the  thing  that  he  had  found  to  do,  he  quickly  realized 
that  he  had  only  thought  that  he  thought.  He  found 
that  he  was  not  at  all  a  thinker  but  a  listener — a 
receiver — a  rememberer.  In  his  school  days,  the 
thoughts  of  others  were  offered  him  and  he,  because 

73 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

he  had  accepted  them,  called  them  his  own.  He  came, 
now,  to  understand  that  thinking  is  not  accepting  the 
thoughts  of  others  but  finding  thoughts  of  your  own 
in  whatever  it  is  that  you  have  found  to  do. 

Thinking  the  thoughts  of  others  is  a  delightful 
pastime  and  profitable  but  it  is  not  really  thinking. 
Also,  if  one  be  blessed  with  a  good  memory,  he  may 
thus  cheaply  acquire  a  reputation  for  great  wisdom ; 
just  as  one,  if  he  happens  to  be  born  with  a  nose  of 
uncommon  length  or  bigness,  may  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  the  world.  But  no  one  should  deceive  himself. 
A  man  because  he  is  able,  better  than  the  multitude, 
to  repeat  the  thoughts  of  other  men  must  not  therefore 
think  himself  a  better  thinker  than  the  crowd.  No 
more  should  the  one  with  the  uncommon  nose  flatter 
himself  that  he  is  necessarily  handsome  or  distin 
guished  in  appearance  because  the  people  notice  him. 
He  who  attracts  the  attention  of  the  world  should 
inquire  most  carefully  into  the  reason  for  the  gath 
ering  of  the  crowd ;  for  a  crowd  will  gather  as  readily 
to  listen  to  a  mountebank  as  to  hear  an  angel  from 
heaven. 

To  repeat  what  others  have  thought  is  not  at  all 
evidence  that  he  who  remembers  is  thinking.  Great 
thoughts  are  often  repeated  thoughtlessly.  A  man's 
Occupation  betrays  him  or  establishes  his  claim  to 

74 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Knowledge.  That  which  a  man  does  proclaims  that 
which  he  thinks  or  in  his  thoughtlessness  finds  him 
out. 

Of  course,  when  the  man  had  learned  this,  he  said 
at  first,  quite  wrongly,  that  his  school  days  were 
wasted.  He  said  that  what  he  had  called  his  educa 
tion  was  all  a  mistake — that  it  was  vanity  only  and 
wholly  worthless.  But,  as  he  went  on  gaining  ever 
more  and  more  Knowledge  from  the  thing  that  he 
was  doing,  and,  through  that  thing,  of  many  other 
things,  he  came  to  understand  that  his  school  days 
were  not  wasted  but  very  well  spent  indeed.  He 
came  to  see  that  what  he  had  called  education  was 
not  a  mistake.  He  came  to  understand  that  what  was 
wrong  was  this:  he  had  considered  his  education 
complete,  finished,  when  he  had  only  been  prepared 
to  begin.  He  had  considered  his  schooling  as  an  end 
to  be  gained  when  it  was  only  a  means  to  the  end. 
He  had  considered  his  learning  as  wealth  to  hold 
when  it  was  capital  to  invest.  He  had  mistaken  the 
thoughts  that  he  received  from  others  for  Knowledge 
when  they  were  given  him  only  to  inspire  and  to 
help  him  in  acquiring  Knowledge. 

And  then,  of  this  knowledge  of  Knowledge  gained 
by  the  man  from  his  Occupation,  there  was  born  in 
him  a  mighty  passion,  a  burning  desire.  It  was  the 

75 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

passion  for  Knowledge.  It  was  the  desire  to  know. 
To  know  the  thing  that  he  had  found  to  do  was  not 
enough.  He  determined  to  use  that  knowledge  to 
gain  Knowledge  of  many  other  things.  He  felt 
within  himself  a  new  strength  stirring — the  strength 
of  thought.  He  saw  that  knowledge  of  things  led 
ever  to  more  knowledge,  even  as  link  to  link  in  a 
golden  chain.  One  end  of  the  chain  he  held  in  his 
Occupation ;  the  other  was  somewhere,  far  beyond  his 
sight,  hidden  in  the  mists  that  shroud  the  Infinite 
Fact,  fast  to  the  mighty  secret  of  Life  itself.  Link 
by  link,  he  determined  to  follow  the  chain.  From 
knowing  things  to  knowledge  of  other  things  he  would 
go  even  until  he  held  in  his  grip  the  last  link — 
until  he  held  the  key  to  the  riddle — until  he  knew 
the  answer  to  the  sum  of  Life. 

And  facts — cold,  uncompromising,  all  powerful, 
unanswerable  facts — should  give  him  this  mastering 
knowledge  of  Life.  For  him  there  should  be  no 
sentiment  to  deceive,  no  illusion  to  beguile,  no  fancy 
to  lead  astray.  As  resistlessly  as  the  winter,  with 
snowflake  upon  snowflake,  had  buried  all  the  delight 
ful  vagaries  of  summer,  so  this  man,  in  his  passion 
for  Knowledge,  would  have  buried  all  the  charming 
inconsistencies,  the  beautiful  inaccuracies,  the  lovely 
pretenses  of  Life.  The  illusions,  the  sentiment,  the 

76 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

fancies,  the  poetry  of  Life,  he  would  have  buried 
under  the  icy  sameness  of  his  facts,  even  as  the 
flowers  and  grasses  were  hidden  under  winter's 
shroud  of  snow.  But  he  could  not.  Under  the  snow, 
summer  still  lived.  Under  the  cold  facts  of  Life, 
the  tender  sentiments,  the  fond  fancies,  the  dear  illu 
sions  have  strength  even  as  the  flowers  and  grasses. 

I  do  not  know  what  it  was  that  brought  it  about. 
It  does  not  matter  what  it  was.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
sight  of  some  boys  coasting  down  a  little  hill,  on  a 
side  street,  near  where  the  man  lived  at  this  time: 
perhaps  it  was  a  group  of  children  who,  on  their 
way  home  from  school,  were  waging  a  merry  snow 
fight:  or,  perhaps,  it  was  the  man's  own  effort  to 
acquire  Knowledge :  or,  it  may  be,  that  his  brain  was 
weary,  that  the  way  of  Knowledge  seemed  over  long, 
that  the  links  in  the  golden  chain  were  many  and 
passed  all  too  slowly  through  his  hand — I  do  not 
know — but,  whatever  it  was  that  did  it,  the  man,  as 
he  sat  before  his  fire  that  winter  evening  with  a  too 
solid  and  substantial  book,  slipped  away  from  his 
grown  up  world  of  facts  back  into  the  no  less  real 
world  of  childhood,  back  into  his  Yesterdays — to  a 
school  day  in  his  Yesterdays. 

Once  again  he  made  his  way  in  the  morning  to  the 
little  schoolhouse  that  stood  half  way  up  a  long  hill, 

77 


THEIK  YESTEEDAYS 

in  the  edge  of  a  bit  of  timber,  nearly  two  miles  from 
his  home.  The  yard,  beaten  smooth  and  hard  by 
many  bare  and  childish  feet,  was  separated  from  the 
timber  by  a  rail  fence  but  was  left  open  in  front  to 
any  stray  horses  or  cattle  that,  wandering  down  the 
road,  might  be  tempted  to  rest  a  while  in  the  shade 
of  a  great  tree  that  stood  near  the  center  of  the  little 
clearing.  The  stumps  of  the  other  forest  beauties 
that  had  once,  like  this  tree,  tossed  their  branches 
in  the  sunlight  were  still  holding  the  places  that  God 
had  given  them  and  made  fine  seats  for  the  girls  or 
bases  for  the  boys  when  they  played  ball  at  recess 
or  noon.  And  often,  when  the  shouting  youngsters 
had  been  called  from  their  sports  by  the  rapping  of 
the  teacher's  ruler  at  the  door  and  only  the  busy  hum 
of  their  childish  voices  came  floating  through  the 
open  windows,  a  venturesome  squirrel  or  a  saucy 
chipmunk  would  creep  stealthily  along  the  fence, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  sit  bolt  upright  with  tail  in 
air  to  look  and  listen.  Then  suddenly,  at  sight  of  a 
laughing  face  at  the  window  or  the  appearance  of 
some  boy  who  had  gained  the  coveted  permission  to 
get  a  bucket  of  water,  the  little  visitor  would  whisk 
away  again  like  a  flash  and,  with  a  warning  chatter 
to  his  mate,  would  seek  safety  among  the  leaves  and 
branches  of  the  forest  only  to  reappear  once  more 

78 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

when  all  was  quiet  until,  at  last,  made  bold  by  many 
trials,  he  would  leap  from  the  fence  and  scamper 
across  the  yard  to  take  possession  of  the  tallest  stump 
as  though  he  himself  were  a  schoolboy.  Sometimes 
a  crow,  after  carefully  watching  the  place  for  a  little 
while  from  a  safe  position  on  the  fence  across  the 
road,  would  fly  quietly  down  to  look  for  choice  bits 
dropped  from  the  dinner  baskets  of  the  children.  Or 
again,  a  long,  lazy,  black  snake  would  crawl  across 
the  yard  to  search  for  the  little  mice  that  lived  in  the 
foundation  of  the  house  and  in  the  corners  of  the 
fence.  Or,  perhaps,  a  chicken  hawk,  that  had  been 
sailing  on  outstretched  wings  in  ever  narrowing  cir 
cles,  would  drop  from  the  blue  sky  to  claim  his  share 
of  the  plunder  only  to  be  frightened  away  again  by 
the  sound  of  the  teacher's  voice  raised  in  sharp  rebuke 
of  some  mischievous  urchin. 

The  schoolhouse  was  not  a  large  building  nor  was 
it,  in  the  least,  imposing.  It  was  built  of  wood  with 
a  foundation  of  rough  stone  and  there  were  heavy 
shutters  which  were  always  carefully  closed  at  night 
to  keep  out  the  tramps  who  might  seek  a  lodging 
place  within.  And  there  was  a  woodshed,  too,  where 
the  boys  romped  upon  rainy  days  and  where  was 
fought  many  a  schoolboy  battle  for  youthful  love 
and  honor.  The  building  had  once  been  painted 

79 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

white  but  the  storm  and  sunshine  of  many  months 
had  worn  away  the  paint,  and  there  remained  only 
the  dark,  weather  stained,  boards  save  beneath  the 
cornice  and  the  window  ledge  where  one  might  still 
find  traces  of  its  former  glory.  The  chimney,  too,  was 
old  and  some  of  the  bricks  had  crumbled  and  fallen 
from  the  top  which  made  it  look  ragged  against  the 
sky.  And  the  steps  and  threshold  were  worn  very 
thin — very,  very,  thin. 

Wearied  with  his  passion  for  Knowledge ;  tired  of 
his  cold  facts;  hungering  in  his  heart  for  a  bit  of 
wholesome  sentiment  as  one  in  winter  hungers  for 
the  summer  flowers ;  the  man  who  sat  before  his  fire 
that  night,  with  a  too  heavy  and  substantial  book, 
crossed  once  more  with  childish  feet  the  worn  thresh 
old  of  the  old  schoolhouse  and  stood  within  the  entry 
where  hung  the  hats  and  dinner  baskets  of  his  mates. 
They  looked  very  familiar  to  him — those  hats — 
and,  as  he  saw  them  in  his  memory,  each  offered 
mute  testimony  to  its  owner's  disposition  and  rank 
in  childhood's  world.  There  were  broad  brimmed 
straws  that  belonged  to  the  patient,  plodding,  boys 
and  caps  that  seemed  made  to  set  far  back  on  the 
heads  of  the  boisterous  lads.  There  was  the  old  slouch 
felt  of  the  poor  boy  who  did  chores  for  his  board  and 
the  brimless  hat  of  the  bully  of  the  school.  There 

80 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

were  the  trim  sailors  of  the  good  little  boys  and  the 
head  gear  of  his  own  particular  chum.  And  there — 
the  man  who  sought  Knowledge  only  in  facts  smiled  at 
the  fire  and  a  fond  light  came  into  his  eyes  while  his 
too  solid  and  substantial  book  slipped  unheeded  to  the 
floor — there  was  a  sunbonnet  of  blue  checkered 
gingham  hanging  by  its  long  strings  from  a  hook 
near  the  window. 

With  fast  beating  heart,  the  boy  saw  that  the  next 
hook  was  vacant  and  placing  his  own  well  worn  straw 
beside  the  bonnet  he  wondered  if  she  would  know 
whose  hat  it  was.  And  then  once  more,  with  reluc 
tant  hand,  the  seeker  of  Knowledge,  in  his  Yester 
days,  pushed  open  the  door  leading  to  the  one  room  in 
the  building  and,  with  a  sigh  of  regret,  passed  from 
the  bright  sunlight  of  boyish  freedom  to  the  shadow 
of  his  childish  task. 

There  were  neither  tinted  walls  nor  polished  wood 
work  in  that  hall  of  learning.  But,  thank  God,  learn 
ing  does  not  depend  upon  tinted  walls  or  polished 
woodwork.  Indeed  it  seems  that  rude  rafters  and 
unplastered  ceilings  most  often  covers  the  head  of 
learning.  The  humble  cottage  of  the  farmer  shelters 
many  a  true  scholar  and  statesmen  are  bred  in  log 
cabins.  Neither  was  there  a  furnace  with  mys 
terious  cranks  and  chains  nor  steam  pipes  nor  radi- 

81 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

ators.  But,  when  the  cold  weather  came,  the  room 
was  warmed  by  an  old  sheet  iron  stove  that  stood 
near  the  center  of  the  building  with  an  armful  of 
wood  in  a  box  nearby  and  the  kindlings  for  to-mor 
row's  fire  drying  on  the  floor  beneath.  The  desks 
were  of  soft  pine,  without  paint  or  varnish,  but 
carved  with  many  a  quaint  and  curious  figure  by 
jack  knives  in  the  hands  of  ambitious  youngsters. 
The  seats  were  rude  benches  worn  smooth  and  shiny. 
A  water  bucket  had  its  place  near  the  door  and  a 
rusty  tin  dipper  that  leaked  quite  badly  hung  from  a 
nail  in  the  casing. 

And  hanging  upon  the  dingy  wall  were  the  old 
maps  and  charts  that,  torn  and  soiled  by  long  usage, 
had  patiently  guided  generations  of  boys  and  girls 
through  the  mysteries  of  lands  and  seas,  icebergs, 
trade  winds,  deserts,  and  plains.  Still  patiently  they 
marked  for  the  boy's  bewildered  brain  latitude  and 
longitude,  the  tropic  of  cancer,  the  arctic  circle,  and 
the  poles.  Were  they  hanging  there  still?  the  man 
wondered.  Were  they  still  patiently  leading  the 
way  through  a  wilderness  of  islands  and  peninsulas, 
capes  and  continents,  rivers,  lakes,  and  sounds?  Or 
had  they,  in  the  years  that  had  gone  since  he  looked 
upon  their  learned  faces,  been  sunk  to  oblivion  in 
the  depths  of  their  own  oceans  by  the  weight  of  their 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

own  mountain  ranges  ?  And,  suddenly,  the  man  who 
sought  Knowledge  in  facts  found  himself  wishing  in 
his  heart  that  some  gracious  being  would  make  for 
older  children  maps  and  charts  that  they  might  know 
where  flow  the  rivers  of  prosperity,  where  rise  the 
mountains  of  fame,  where  ripple  the  lakes  of  love, 
where  sleep  the  valleys  of  rest,  or  where  thunders 
the  ocean  of  truth. 

At  one  end  of  the  old  schoolroom,  behind  the 
teacher's  desk,  was  a  blackboard  with  its  accompany 
ing  chalk,  erasers,  rulers,  and  bits  of  string.  To  the 
boy,  that  blackboard  was  a  trial,  a  temptation,  a 
vindication,  or  a  betrayal.  Often,  as  he  sat  with  his 
class  on  the  long  recitation  seat  that  faced  the  teach 
er's  desk,  with  half  studied  lesson,  but  with  bright 
hopes  of  passing  the  twenty  minutes  safely,  before 
the  slow  hand  of  the  old  clock  had  marked  but  half 
the  time,  his  hopes  would  be  blasted  by  a  call  to 
the  board  where  he  would  bring  upon  himself  the 
ridicule  of  his  schoolmates,  the  condemnation  of  the 
teacher,  and  would  take  his  seat  to  hear,  with  burn 
ing  cheeks,  the  awful  sentence:  "You  may  study 
your  lesson  after  school." 

After  school — sorrowfully  the  boy  saw  the  others 
passing  from  the  room,  leaving  him  behind.  And  the 
last  to  go,  glancing  back  with  tear  dimmed  eyes,  was 

83 


THEIR  YESTEEDAYS 

the  little  girl.  Sadly  he  listened  to  the  voices  in 
the  entry  and  heard  their  shouts  as  they  hurst  out 
doors ;  and — suddenly,  his  heart  beat  quicker  and  his 
cheeks  burned — that  was  her  voice ! 

Clear  and  sweet  through  the  open  window  of  the 
man's  memory  it  came — the  voice  of  his  little  girl 
mate  of  the  Yesterdays. 

She  was  standing  on  the  worn  threshold  of  the  old 
schoolhouse,  calling  to  her  friends  to  wait;  and  the 
boy  knew  that  she  was  lingering  there  for  him  and 
that  she  called  to  her  companions  loudly  so  that  he 
would  understand. 

But  the  teacher  knew  it  too  and  bade  the  little  girl 
go  home. 

Then,  while  the  boy  listened  to  that  sweet  voice 
growing  fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance;  while 
he  saw  her,  in  his  fancy,  walking  slowly,  lagging 
behind  her  companions,  looking  back  for  him;  the 
teacher  talked  to  him  very  seriously  about  the  value 
of  his  opportunities;  told  him  that  to  acquire  an 
education  was  his  duty ;  sought  to  impress  upon  him 
that  the  most  important  thing  in  life  was  Knowl 
edge. 

Of  course,  thought  the  boy,  teacher  must  know. 
And,  thinking  this,  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  very  bad 
boy,  indeed;  because,  in  his  heart,  he  knew  that  he 

84 


THFIR  YESTEKDAYS 

would  have,  that  moment,  given  up  every  chance 
of  an  education ;  he  would  have  sacrificed  every  hope 
of  wisdom;  he  would  have  thrown  away  all  Knowl 
edge  and  heaven  itself  just  to  be  walking  down  the 
road  with  the  little  girl.  And  he  must  have  been 
a  little  bad — that  boy — because  also,  most  ardently, 
did  he  wish  that  he  was  big  enough  to  thrash  the 
teacher  or  whoever  it  was  that  invented  blackboards. 

As  the  man  stooped  to  take  up  again  his  too  solid 
and  substantial  book,  he  felt  that  he  was  but  a  school 
boy  still.  To  him,  the  world  had  become  but  a  great 
blackboard.  In  his  private  life  or  in  conversation 
with  a  friend,  he  might  hide  his  poorly  prepared 
lesson  behind  a  show  of  fine  talk,  a  pet  quotation,  or 
an  air  of  learning;  but  when  he  was  forced  to  put 
what  he  knew  where  all  men  might  see — when  he  was 
made  to  write  his  sentences  in  books  or  papers  or  com 
pelled  to  do  his  problems  in  the  business  world — 
then  it  was  that  his  lack  of  preparation  was  discov 
ered,  and  that  he  brought  upon  himself  the  ridicule 
or  condemnation  of  his  fellows.  Unconsciously  he 
listened,  half  expecting  to  hear  again  the  old  familiar 
sentence :  "You  may  study  your  lesson  after  school." 
After  school — would  there  be  any  after  school,  he 
wondered. 

"And,  after  all,  was  that  teacher  in  his  Yesterdays 
85 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

right?"  the  man  asked  himself.  "Was  Knowledge 
the  most  important  thing  in  life  ?  After  all,  was  that 
schoolboy  of  the  Yesterdays  such  a  bad  schoolboy 
because,  in  his  boyish  heart,  he  rebelled  against  the 
tasks  that  kept  him  from  his  schoolmates  and  from 
the  companionship  of  the  little  girl  ?  Was  that  boy 
so  bad  because  he  wished  that  he  was  big  enough  to 
thrash  whoever  it  was  that  invented  blackboards,  to 
rob  schoolboys  of  their  schoolgirl  mates  ?" 

Suppose — the  man  asked  himself,  as  he  laid  aside 
the  too  heavy  and  substantial  book  and  looked  into  the 
fire  again — suppose,  that,  after  a  lifetime  devoted 
to  the  pursuit  of  Knowledge,  there  should  be  no  one, 
when  school  time  was  over,  to  linger  on  the  worn  old 
threshold  for  him  ?  Suppose  he  should  be  forced,  in 
the  late  afternoon,  to  go  down  the  homeward  road 
alone?  Could  it  be  truly  said  that  his  manhood 
years  had  been  well  spent?  Could  any  number  of 
accumulated  facts  satisfy  him  if  the  hour  was  a 
lonely  hour  when  school  closed  for  the  day?  Might 
it  not  be  that  there  is  a  Knowledge  to  be  gained  from 
Life  that  is  of  more  value  than  the  wintry  Knowledge 
of  facts  ? 

As  the  man  looked  back  into  his  Yesterdays,  the 
blackboard  and  its  condemnation  mattered  little  to 
him.  It  was  the  going  home  alone  that  mattered. 

86 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

What,  he  wondered,  would  matter  most  when,  at 
last,  he  could  look  back  upon  his  grown  up  school 
days — the  world  blackboard  with  its  approval  or 
its  condemnation,  or  the  going  home  alone  ? 


It  was  the  time  of  melting  snow.  The  top  of  the 
orchard  hill  was  a  faded  brown  patch  as  though,  on  a 
shoulder  of  winter's  coat,  the  season  had  worn  a  hole 
quite  through;  while  the  fields  of  the  fall  plowing 
made  spots  that  looked  pitifully  thin  and  threadbare ; 
and  the  creek,  below  the  house  where  the  little  girl 
lived,  was  a  long  dark  line  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  a  rip  where  the  icy  stitching  of  a  seam  in  the 
once  proud  garment  had,  at  last,  given  way.  But 
the  drift  in  the  garden  on  the  boy's  side  of  the  hedge 
was  still  piled  high  against  the  barrier  of  thickly 
interwoven  branches  and  twigs  and  the  cherry  tree, 
in  its  shivering  nakedness,  seemed  to  be  pleading, 
now,  for  spring  to  come  quickly. 

The  woman  who  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman  did 
not  attempt  to  walk  home  from  her  work  that  Satur 
day  afternoon.  The  streets  were  too  muddy  and  she 
was  later  than  usual  because  of  some  extra  work. 

Of  her  Occupation — of  the  world  into  which  she 
had  gone — the  woman  also  was  gaining  Knowledge. 

87 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Though  she  did  not  learn  from  choice  but  because 
she  must.  And  she  learned  of  her  work  only  what 
was  needful  for  her  to  know  that  she  might  hold  her 
place.  She  had  no  desire  to  know  more.  Because 
the  woman  already  knew  the  supreme  thing,  she  had 
no  desire  to  learn  more  of  her  Occupation  than  she 
must.  Already  she  knew  her  womanhood,  and  that, 
to  a  woman  who  knows,  is  the  supreme  thing.  For 
a  woman  with  understanding  there  is  no  Knowledge 
greater  than  this :  the  knowledge  of  her  womanhood. 
There  was  born  in  her  no  passion  for  knowledge  of 
things.  She  burned  with  no  desire  to  follow  the 
golden  chain,  link  by  link,  to  its  hidden  end.  In  her 
womanhood  she  held  already  the  answer  to  the  sum 
of  Life. 

The  passion  of  her  womanhood  was  not  to  know 
but  to  trust — not  facts  but  faith — not  evidence  but 
belief — not  reason  but  emotion.  Her  desire  was  not 
to  take  from  the  world  by  the  power  of  Knowledge 
but  to  receive  from  the  world  by  right  of  her  sex  and 
love.  She  did  not  crave  the  independence  of  great 
learning  but  longed,  rather,  for  the  prouder  depend 
ence  of  a  true  womanhood.  Out  of  her  woman 
heart's  fullness  she  pitied  and  fed  the  poor  mendicant 
without  inquiring  into  the  economic  condition  that 
made  him  a  beggar.  Her  situation,  she  accepted 

S3 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

with  secret  rebellion,  with  hidden  shame  and  humili 
ation  in  her  heart,  but  never  asked  why  the  age 
forced  her  into  such  a  position.  For  affection,  for 
sympathy,  for  confidence,  and  understanding,  she 
hungered  with  a  woman  hunger;  and,  through  her 
hunger  for  these,  from  the  men  and  women  with 
whom  she  labored  she  gained  Knowledge  of  Life.  Of 
the  lives  of  her  fellow  workers — of  the  women  who 
had  entered  that  world,  even  as  she  had  entered  it, 
because  they  must — of  the  men  whom  she  came  to 
know  under  circumstances  that  forbade  recognition 
of  her  womanhood — she  gained  Knowledge ;  and  the 
Knowledge  she  gained  was  this:  that  the  world  is 
a  world  of  hungry  hearts. 

I  do  not  know  just  what  the  circumstances  were 
under  which  the  woman  learned  this.  I  do  not 
know  what  her  Occupation  was  nor  who  her  friends 
were ;  nor  can  I  tell  in  detail  of  the  peculiar  incidents 
that  led  to  this  Knowledge.  Such  things  are  not  of 
my  story.  This,  only,  belongs  to  my  story:  the 
woman  learned  that  the  world  is  a  world  of  hungry 
hearts.  Cold  and  cruel  and  calculating  and  bold, 
fighting  desperately,  merciless,  and  menacing,  the 
world  is  but  a  hungry  hearted  world  with  it  all. 
This,  when  a  woman  knows  it,  is,  for  her,  a  saving 
Knowledge.  Just  to  the  degree  that  a  woman  knows 

89 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

this,  she  is  wise  above  all  men — wise  with  a  wisdom 
that  men  cannot  attain.  Just  to  the  degree  that  a 
woman  is  ignorant  of  this,  she  is  unlearned  in  the 
world's  hest  wisdom. 

Long  before  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  world 
into  which  she  had  been  admitted,  upon  condition 
that  she  left  her  womanhood  without,  the  woman  had 
thought  herself  wise  in  knowledge  of  mankind.  In 
her  school  days,  text  books  and  lessons  had  meant 
little  to  her  beside  the  friendship  of  her  schoolmates. 
At  her  graduation  she  had  considered  her  life  educa 
tion  complete.  She  thought,  modestly,  that  she  was 
fitted  for  a  woman's  place  in  life.  And  that  which 
she  learned  first  from  the  world  into  which  she  had 
gone  was  this :  that  her  knowledge  of  life  was  very, 
very,  meager;  that  there  were  many,  many,  things 
about  men  and  women  that  she  did  not  know. 

School  could  fit  her  only  for  the  fancy  work  of 
Life:  plain  sewing  she  must  learn  of  Life  itself. 
School  had  made  her  highly  ornamental:  Life  must 
make  her  useful.  School  had  developed  her  capacity 
for  pleasure  and  enjoyment:  not  until  Life  had  de 
veloped  her  capacity  for  sorrow  and  pain  would  her 
education  be  complete.  School  had  taught  her  to 
speak,  to  dress,  and  to  act  correctly :  Life  must  teach 
her  to  feel.  School  had  trained  her  mind  to  appreci- 

90 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

ate :  Life  must  teach  her  to  sympathize.  School  had 
made  her  a  lady :  Life  must  make  the  lady  a  woman. 
The  woman  had  known  her  life  schoolmates  only 
in  pleasure — in  those  hours  when  they  came  to  her 
seeking  to  please  or  desiring  to  be  pleased.  In  her 
Occupation  she  was  coming  to  know  them  in  their 
hours  of  toil,  when  there  was  no  thought  of  gaining 
or  giving  pleasure,  but  only  of  the  demands  of  their 
existence;  when  duty,  pitiless,  stern,  uncompromis 
ing,  duty  held  them  in  its  grip ;  when  need,  unrelent 
ing,  ever  present,  dominating  need,  drove  them  under 
its  lash.  She  had  known  them  only  in  their  hours  of 
leisure — when  their  minds  were  free  for  the  merry 
jest,  the  ready  laugh,  the  quick  sympathy:  now  she 
was  coming  to  know  them  in  those  other  hours  when 
their  minds  were  intent  upon  the  battle  they  waged — 
when  their  thoughts  were  all  of  the  attack,  the  de 
fense,  the  advance,  the  retreat,  the  victory  or  defeat. 
She  had  known  them  only  in  their  hours  of  rest — 
when  their  hands  were  empty,  their  nerves  and  mus 
cles  relaxed,  their  hearts  calm  and  their  brains  cool ; 
now  she  saw  them  when  their  hands  held  the  weapons 
of  their  warfare — the  tools  of  their  craft — when 
their  nerves  and  muscles  were  braced  for  the  strain 
of  the  conflict  or  tense  with  the  effort  of  toil ;  when 
their  hearts  beat  high  with  the  zeal  of  their  purpose 

91 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

and  their  brains  were  fired  with  the  excitement  of 
their  efforts.  She  had  known  them  only  in  the 
hours  of  their  dreaming — when,  as  they  looked  out 
upon  life,  they  talked  confidently  of  the  future :  she 
was  learning  now  to  know  them  when  they  were 
working  out  their  dreams ;  at  times  with  hopes  high 
and  courage  strong;  at  other  times  discouraged, 
frightened,  and  dismayed.  She  had  known  them 
only  as  they  dreamed  of  the  past — when  they  talked 
in  low  tones  of  the  days  that  were  gone :  now  she  saw 
them  as  they  thought  only  of  the  present  and  the  days 
that  were  to  come.  So  this  woman,  from  the  world 
into  which  she  had  gone,  gained  knowledge  of  man 
kind. 

And  this  is  the  pity  and  the  danger  of  it:  that 
the  woman  gained  this  knowledge  from  a  world, 
that,  even  as  it  taught  her,  denied  her  womanhood. 
The  sadness  of  it  all  is  this :  to  the  world  that  refused 
to  recognize  her  womanhood,  it  was  given  to  teach  her 
that  which  would  make  her  womanhood  complete. 
The  knowledge  that  she  must  have  to  complete  her 
womanhood  the  woman  should  have  gained  only  from 
the  life  of  her  dreams — the  life  that  is  beyond  that 
old,  old,  open  door  through  which  she  could  not  pass 
alone.  In  the  companionship,  sympathy,  strength, 
protection,  and  love,  of  that  one  who  was  to  cross 

92 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

with  her  the  threshold  of  the  door  that  God  set  open 
in  the  beginning,  she  should  have  gained  the  knowl 
edge  of  life  that  would  ripen  her  girlhood  into 
womanhood.  For  what  else,  indeed,  has  God  given 
love  to  men  and  women  ?  In  the  strength  that  would 
come  to  her  with  her  children,  the  woman  should  have 
been  privileged  to  learn  sorrow  and  pain.  In  the 
world  that  would  have  honored,  above  all  else,  her 
womanhood,  she  should  have  been  permitted  to  find 
the  knowledge  of  life  that  would  perfect  and  com 
plete  her  womanhood. 

Fruit,  I  know,  may  be  picked  green  from  the 
tree  and  artificially  forced  to  a  kind  of  ripeness. 
But  the  fruit  that  matures  under  Nature's  careful 
hand ;  that  knows  in  its  ripening  the  warm  sunshine 
and  the  cleansing  showers,  the  cool  of  the  quiet  even 
ing  and  the  freshness  of  the  dewy  morn,  the  strength 
of  the  roaring  storms  and  the  softness  of  the  caressing 
breeze — this  fruit  alone,  I  say,  has  the  flavor  that  is 
from  heaven. 

It  is  a  trite  saying  that  many  a  girl  of  sixteen, 
these  days,  knows  more  of  life  than  her  grandmother 
knew  at  sixty.  It  remains  to  be  proven  that,  because 
of  this  knowledge,  the  young  woman  of  to-day  is  a 
better  woman  than  her  grandmother  was.  But,  as  the 
only  positive  proof  would  be  her  children,  the  case 

93 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

is  very  likely  to  be  thrown  out  of  court  for  lack  of 
evidence  for  it  seems,  somehow,  that,  when  women 
gain  Knowledge  from  that  world  into  which  they 
go  alone,  leaving  their  womanhood  behind,  they 
acquire  also  a  strange  pride  in  being  too  wise  to  mate 
for  love  or  to  bear  children.  And  yet,  it  is  true,  that 
the  knowledge  that  enables  a  woman  to  live  happy  and 
contented  without  children  is  a  damnable  knowledge 
and  a  menace  to  the  race. 

Poor  old  world,  you  are  so  "grown  up"  these  days 
and  your  palate  is  so  educated  to  the  artificial  flavor 
that  you  have  forgotten,  seemingly,  how  peaches  taste 
when  ripened  on  the  trees.  God  pity  you,  old  world, 
if  you  do  not  soon  get  back  into  the  orchard  before 
you  lose  your  taste  for  fruit  altogether. 

The  knowledge  that  the  woman  gained  from  her 
Occupation  made  her  question,  more  and  more,  if  that 
one  with  whom  she  could  cross  the  threshold  of  the 
door  that  led  to  the  life  of  her  dreams,  would  ever 
come.  The  knowledge  she  gained  made  her  doubt 
her  courage  to  enter  that  door  with  him  if  he  should 
come.  In  the  knowledge  she  gained  of  the  world 
into  which  she  had  gone  alone,  her  womanhood's  only 
salvation  was  this:  that  she  gained  also  the  knowl 
edge  that  the  world  of  men,  even  as  the  world  of 
women,  is  a  world  of  hungry  hearts.  It  was  this  that 

94 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

kept  her — that  made  her  strong — that  saved  her. 
It  was  this  knowledge  that  saved  her  womanhood  for 
herself  and  for  the  race. 

The  week,  for  the  woman,  had  been  a  hard  week. 
The  day,  for  her,  had  been  a  hard  day.  When  she 
boarded  the  car  to  go  to  her  home  she  was  very  tired 
and  she  was  not  quite  the  picture  of  perfect  woman 
health  that  she  had  been  that  other  Saturday — the 
time  of  falling  leaves. 

For  some  unaccountable  reason  there  was  one 
vacant  seat  left  in  the  car  and  she  dropped  into  it 
with  a  little  inward  sigh  of  relief.  With  weary,  un 
seeing,  eyes  she  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the 
throng  of  people  hurrying  along  through  the  mud 
and  slush  of  the  streets.  Her  tired  brain  refused  to 
think.  Her  very  soul  was  faint  with  loneliness  and 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  gaining  of  life. 

The  car  stopped  again  and  a  party  of  girls  of  the 
high  school  age,  evidently  just  from  the  Saturday 
matinee,  crowded  in.  Clinging  to  the  straps  and  the 
backs  of  seats,  clutching  each  other  with  little  gusts 
and  ripples  of  laughter,  they  filled  the  aisle  of  the 
crowded  car  with  a  fresh  and  joyous  life  that  touched 
the  tired  woman  like  a  breath  of  spring.  In  all  this 
work  stale,  stupidly  weary,  world  there  is  nothing  so 
refreshing  as  the  wholesome  laugh  of  a  happy,  care 

95 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

free,  young  girl.  The  woman  whose  heart  was  heavy 
with  knowledge  of  life  would  have  liked  to  take 
them  in  her  arms.  She  felt  a  sense  of  gratitude  as 
though  she  were  indebted  to  them  just  for  their 
being.  And  would  these,  too — the  woman  thought — 
would  these,  too,  be  forced  by  the  custom  of  the  age 
— by  necessity — to  go  into  the  world  that  would  not 
recognize  their  womanhood — that  would  put  a  price 
upon  the  priceless  things  of  their  womanhood — that 
would  teach  them  hard  lessons  of  life  and,  with  a  too 
early  knowledge,  crush  out  the  sweet  girlish  natural 
ness,  even  as  a  thoughtless  foot  crushes  a  tender  flower 
while  still  it  is  in  the  bud  ? 

And  thinking  thus,  perhaps  because  of  her  weari 
ness,  perhaps  because  of  some  chance  word  dropped  by 
the  girls  as  they  talked  of  their  school  and  school 
mates,  the  woman  went  back  again  into  her  Yester 
days — to  the  schoolmates  of  her  Yesterdays.  The 
world  in  which  she  now  lived  and  labored  was  forgot 
ten.  Forgotten  were  the  worries  and  troubles  of  her 
grown  up  life — forgotten  the  trials  and  disappoint 
ments — forgotten  the  new  friends,  the  uncongenial 
acquaintances,  the  cruel  knowledge,  the  heartless 
business — forgotten  everything  of  the  present — all, 
all,  was  lost  in  a  golden  mist  of  the  long  ago. 

The  tall,  graceful,  girl  holding  to  a  strap  at  the 
96 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

forward  end  of  the  car,  in  the  woman's  Yesterdays, 
lived  just  beyond  the  white  church  at  the  corner. 
The  dark  haired,  dark  eyed,  round  faced  one,  she 
knew  as  the  minister's  daughter.  While  the  dainty, 
doll  like,  miss  clinging  to  her  sturdier  sister,  in  those 
days  of  long  ago,  was  the  woman's  own  particular 
chum.  And  the  girl  with  the  yellow  curls — the  one 
with  the  golden  hair — the  blue  eyed,  and  the  brown — 
the  slender  and  the  stout — every  one — belonged  to 
the  tired  woman's  Yesterdays — every  one  she  had 
known  in  the  past  and  to  each  she  gave  a  name. 

And  then — as  the  woman,  watching  the  young 
schoolgirls  in  the  crowded  car,  lived  once  again  those 
days  of  the  old  schoolhouse  on  the  hill  where,  with  her 
girl  companions  of  the  long  ago,  she  sought  the  begin 
nings  of  Knowledge — the  boys  came,  too.  Just  as 
in  the  Yesterdays  they  had  come  to  take  their  places 
in  the  old  schoolroom,  they  came,  now,  to  take  their 
places  in  the  woman's  memory. 

There  was  the  tall,  thin,  lad  whose  shoulders 
seemed,  even  in  his  school  days,  to  find  the  burden 
of  life  too  heavy;  and  who  wore  always  on  his  face 
such  a  sad  and  solemn  air  that  one  was  almost  star 
tled  when  he  laughed  as  though  the  parson  had 
cracked  a  joke  at  a  funeral.  The  woman  smiled  as  she 
remembered  how  his  clothes  were  never  known  to  fit 

97 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

him.  Wlien  his  trousers  were  so  short  that  they  barely 
reached  below  his  knees  his  coat  sleeves  covered  his 
hands  and  the  skirts  of  that  garment  almost  swept 
the  ground ;  but,  when  the  trousers  were  rolled  up  at 
the  bottom  and  hung  over  his  feet  like  huge  bags, 
his  long,  thin,  arms  showed,  half  way  to  his  elbows, 
in  a  coat  that  was  too  small  to  button  about  even  his 
narrow  chest.  That  boy  never  missed  his  lessons, 
though,  but  when  he  learned  them  no  one  ever  knew 
for  he  seemed  to  be  always  drawing  grotesque  figures 
and  funny  faces  on  his  slate  or  whittling  slyly  on 
some  curious  toy  when  the  teacher's  back  was  turned. 
He  had  no  particular  chum  or  crony.  He  was  never 
a  leader  but  dared  to  follow  the  boldest.  To  the  little 
boys  and  girls  he  was  a  hero ;  to  the  older  ones  he  was 
—"Slim." 

The  woman,  by  chance,  had  met  this  old  school 
mate,  one  day,  in  her  grown  up  world.  In  the 
editorial  rooms  of  a  large  city  daily  he  was  the  chief, 
and  she  noticed  that  his  clothing  fitted  him  a  little 
better ;  that  he  was  a  little  broader  in  the  shoulders ; 
a  little  larger  around  the  waist ;  his  face  was  not  quite 
so  solemn  and  his  eyes  had  a  more  knowing  look 
perhaps.  But  still — still — the  woman  could  see  that 
he  was,  after  all,  the  same  old  "Slim"  and  she  fan- 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

cied,  with  another  smile,  that  he  often,  still,  whittled 
toys  when  the  teacher's  back  was  turned. 

Then  came  the  fat  boy — "Stuffy."  He,  too,  had 
another  name  which  does  not  matter.  Always  in  the 
Yesterdays,  as  in  the  to-days,  there  is  a  " Stuffy." 
"  Stuffy"  was  evidently  built  to  roll  through  life, 
pushed  gently  by  that  special  providence  that  seems 
to  look  after  the  affairs  of  fat  people.  His  teeth 
were  white  and  even,  his  eyes  of  the  deepest  blue, 
and  his  nose — what  there  was  of  it — was  almost 
hidden  by  cheeks  that  were  as  red  and  shiny  as  the 
apples  he  always  carried  in  his  pocket.  He  was  very 
generous  with  those  same  apples — was  "Stuffy" — 
though  one  was  tempted  to  think  that  he  shared  his 
fruit  not  so  much  from  choice  but  rather  because  he 
disliked  the  hard  work  that  was  sure  to  follow  a 
refusal  of  the  pressing  invitation  to  "go  halvers." 
The  woman  fancied  that  she  could  see  again  the  look 
of  mingled  fun  and  fear,  generosity  and  greed,  that 
went  over  her  schoolmate's  face  as  he  saw  the  half 
of  his  eatable  possessions  pass  into  the  keeping  of  his 
companions.  And  then,  as  he  watched  the  tempting 
morsels  disappear,  the  expression  on  his  face  would 
seem  to  show  a  battle  royal  between  his  stomach  and 
his  heart,  in  that  he  rejoiced  to  see  the  happiness  of 


99 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

liis  friends,  even  while  he  coveted  that  which  gave 
them  pleasure.  She  wondered  where  was  "Stuffy" 
now  ?  She  felt  sure  that  he  must  live  in  a  big  house, 
and  drive  to  and  from  his  place  of  business  in  a  fine 
carriage,  with  fine  horses  and  a  coachman  in  livery, 
and  dine  and  wine  his  friends  as  often  as  he  chose 
with  never  a  fear  that  he  would  run  short  of  good 
things  for  himself.  She  was  quite  sure,  too,  that  he 
would  suffer  with  severe  attacks  of  gout  at  times 
and  would  have  four  or  five  half  grown  daughters 
and  a  wife  of  great  ambition.  Does  he,  she  won 
dered,  does  he  ever — in  the  whirl  and  rush  of  busi 
ness  or  in  the  excitement  and  pleasure  of  his  social 
life — does  he  ever  go  back  to  those  other  days  ?  Does 
the  grown  up  "Stuffy"  remember  how  once  he  traded 
marbles  for  candy  or  bought  sweet  cakes  with  toys  ? 

And  then,  there  was  the  boy  with  the  freckled  face 
and  tangled  hair,  whose  nose  seemed  always  trying 
to  peep  into  his  own  mischief  lighted  eyes  as  though 
wishing  to  see  what  new  deviltry  was  breeding  there : 
and  his  crony,  who  never  could  learn  the  multiplica 
tion  table,  who  was  forever  swearing  vengeance  on  the 
teacher,  whose  clothes  were  always  torn,  and  who 
carried  frogs  and  little  snakes  in  his  pockets :  and  the 
timid  boys  who  always  played  in  one  corner  of  the 


100 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

yard  by  themselves  or  with  the  girls  or  stood  by  and 
watched,  with  mingled  admiration  and  envy,  the 
games  and  pranks  of  the  bolder  lads :  and  "Dummy" 
— poor  "Dummy" — the  shining  mark  for  every 
schoolboy  trick  and  joke;  with  his  shock  of  yellow 
hair,  his  weak  cross  eyes,  his  sharp  nose,  thin  lips, 
and  shambling,  shuffling,  shifting  manner — poor 
"Dummy." 

And  of  course  there  was  a  bully,  the  Ishmael  of  the 
school,  whom  everybody  shunned  and  nobody  liked; 
who  fought  the  teacher  and  frightened  the  little 
children;  who  chewed,  and  smoked,  and  swore,  and 
lied,  and  did  everything  bad  that  a  boy  could  do. 
He  had  a  few  followers,  a  very  few,  who  joined  him 
rather  through  fear  than  admiration  and  not  one  of 
whom  cared  for  or  trusted  him.  The  woman  re 
membered  how  this  schoolboy  face  was  sadly  hard 
and  cold  and  cruel,  as  though,  because  he  had  gotten 
so  little  sunshine  from  life,  his  heart  was  frozen 
over.  She  had  read  of  him,  in  the  grown  up  world, 
receiving  sentence  for  a  dreadful  crime,  and,  remem 
bering  his  father  and  mother,  had  wondered  if  his 
grandparents  were  like  them  and  how  many  gener 
ations  before  his  birth  his  career  of  crime  began. 

Again  and  again,  the  car  had  stopped  to  let  peo- 


101 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

pie  off  but  the  woman  had  not  noticed.  The  school 
girls,  all  but  the  tall  one  who  had  found  a  seat,  were 
gone.  But  the  woman  had  not  seen  them  go. 

And  then,  as  she  sat  dreaming  of  the  days  long 
gone — as  she  saw  again  the  faces  of  her  school  day 
friends,  one  there  was  that  stood  out  from  among 
them  all.  It  was  the  face  of  the  boy  who  lived  next 
door — the  boy  who  had  stood  with  her  under  the 
cherry  tree;  who  had  put  a  tiny  play  ring  of  brass 
upon  her  finger ;  and  who  had  kissed  her  with  a  kiss 
that  was  somehow  different.  He  was  the  hero  of 
her  Yesterdays  as  he  was  the  acknowledged  chieftain 
of  the  school.  No  one  could  run  so  fast,  swim  so 
far,  dive  so  deep,  or  climb  so  high  as  he.  No  one 
could  throw  him  in  wrestling  or  defeat  him  in  boxing. 
He  was  their  lord,  their  leader,  their  boyish  master 
and  royally  he  ruled  them  all — his  willing  subjects. 
He  it  was  who  stopped  the  runaway  horse ;  who  killed 
the  big  snake;  and  who  pulled  the  minister's  little 
daughter  from  the  pond.  It  was  he  who  planned  the 
parties  and  the  picnics ;  the  sleigh  rides  in  winter 
and  the  berrying  trips  in  summer.  It  was  he  whom 
the  girls  all  loved  and  the  boys  all  worshiped — bold, 
handsome,  daring,  dashing,  careless,  generous,  leader 
of  the  Yesterdays. 


102 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Again  she  saw  his  face  lifted  slyly  from  a  spelling 
book  to  smile  at  her  across  the  aisle.  Again  she  felt 
the  rich,  warm,  color  rush  to  her  cheeks  as  he  took 
his  seat  beside  her  on  the  recitation  bench.  Again 
her  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears  when  he  was  pun 
ished  for  some  broken  rule  or  shone  with  gladness 
when  she  heard  his  clear  voice  laughing  with  his 
friends  or  calling  to  his  mates  and  her. 

And  once  again,  in  the  late  afternoon,  with  him 
and  with  the  other  boys  and  girls,  she  went  down  the 
road  from  the  little  schoolhouse  in  the  edge  of  the 
timber  on  the  hill;  her  sunbonnet  hanging  by  its 
strings  and  her  dinner  basket  on  her  arm.  Onward, 
through  the  long  shadows  that  lay  across  their  way, 
they  went  together,  to  pause  at  last  before  the  gate 
of  her  home,  there  to  linger  for  a  little,  while  the 
others  still  went  on.  Farther  and  farther  in  the 
evening  they  watched  their  schoolmates  go — up  the 
road  past  the  house  where  he  lived — past  the  orchard 
and  over  the  hill — until,  in  the  distance,  they  seemed 
to  vanish  into  the  sunset  sky  and  she  was  left  with 
him  alone. 

The  conductor  called  the  woman's  street  but  she  did 
not  heed.  The  man  in  uniform  pulled  the  bell  cord 
and,  as  the  car  stopped,  called  again,  looking  toward 


103 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

her  expectantly.  But  she  did  not  notice.  With  a 
smile,  the  man,  who  knew  her,  approached,  and: 
"Beg  your  pardon  Miss,  but  here's  your  street." 

With  blushing  cheeks  and  confused  manner,  she 
stammered  her  thanks,  and  hurried  from  the  car  amid 
the  smiles  of  the  passengers.  And  the  woman  did  not 
know  how  beautiful  she  was  at  that  moment.  She 
was  wondering :  in  the  hungry  hearted  world — under 
all  his  ambition,  plans,  and  labor,  with  the  knowl 
edge  that  must  have  come  to  him  also  from  life — 
was  his  heart  ever  hungry  too  ? 


104 


IGNORANCE 

HEX  the  man  had  gained  a  little  knowl- 
\Y7  j  J  edge  from  the  thing  that  he  had  found 
to  do  and  had  wearied  himself  greatly 
trying  to  follow  the  golden  chain,  link 
by  link,  to  the  very  end,  he  came,  then,  to  under 
stand  the  value  of  Ignorance.  He  came  to  see  that 
success  in  working  out  his  dreams  depended  quite 
as  much  upon  Ignorance  as  upon  Knowledge — that, 
indeed,  to  know  the  value  of  Ignorance  is  the  highest 
order  of  Knowledge. 

There  are  a  great  many  things  about  this  man's 
life  that  I  do  not  know.  But  that  does  not  matter 
because  most  of  the  things  about  any  man's  life  are  of 
little  or  no  importance.  That  the  man  came  to  know 
the  value  of  Ignorance  was  a  thing  of  vast  importance 
to  the  man  and,  therefore,  is  of  importance  to  my 
story.  Ignorance  also  is  one  of  the  Thirteen  Truly 
Great  Things  of  Life  but  only  those  who  have  much 
knowledge  know  its  value. 

A  wise  Ignorance  is  rich  soil  from  which  the 
seeds  of  Knowledge  will  bring  forth  fruit,  a  hundred 

105 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

fold.  "I  do  not  know":  this  is  the  beginning  and 
the  end  of  wisdom.  One  who  has  never  learned  to 
say :  "I  do  not  know/'  has  not  the  A  B  C  of  educa 
tion.  He  who  professes  to  be  educated  but  will  not 
confess  Ignorance  is  intellectually  condemned. 

A  man  who  pretends  to  a  knowledge  which  he  has 
not  is  like  a  pygmy  wearing  giant's  clothing,  ridicu 
lous:  but  he  who  admits  Ignorance  is  like  a  strong 
knight,  clothed  in  a  well  fitting  suit  of  mail,  ready 
to  achieve  truth. 

When  a  man  declares  openly  his  ignorance  concern 
ing  things  of  which  he  knows  but  little,  the  world 
listens  with  increased  respect  when  he  speaks  of  the 
thing  he  knows:  but  when  a  man  claims  knowledge 
of  all  things,  the  world  doubts  mightily  that  he  knows 
much  of  anything,  and  accepts  questioningly  what 
ever  he  says  of  everything. 

That  which  a  man  does  not  know  harms  him  not  at 
all,  neither  does  it  harm  the  world ;  but  that  which, 
through  a  shallow,  foolish,  self-conceit,  he  professes 
to  know,  when  he  has  at  best  only  a  half  knowledge, 
or,  in  a  self  destructive  vanity,  deceives  himself  into 
thinking  that  he  knows,  betrays  him  always  to  the 
injury  of  both  himself  and  others.  An  honest  Ignor 
ance  is  a  golden  vessel,  empty,  ready  to  be  filled  with 
wealth  but  a  pretentious  or  arrogant  knowledge  is  a 

106 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

vessel  so  filled  with  worthless  trash  that  there  is  no 
room  for  that  which  is  of  value. 

The  world  is  as  full  of  things  to  know  as  it  is  full 
of  books.  No  man  can  hope  to  read  all  the  books  in 
the  world.  Selection  is  enforced  by  necessity.  So  it 
is  in  Knowledge.  One  should  not  think  that,  because 
a  man  is  ignorant  of  some  things,  he  is  therefore  a 
fool;  his  ignorance  may  be  the  manifestation  of  a 
choice  wiser  than  that  of  the  one  who  elects  to  sit 
in  judgment  upon  him. 

With  the  passion  to  know  fully  aroused;  with  his 
mind  fretting  to  grapple  with  the  problem  of  Life; 
and  his  purpose  fired  to  solve  the  riddle  of  time ;  the 
man  succeeded  in  acquiring  this :  that  he  must  dare 
to  know  little.  He  came  to  understand  that,  while 
all  knowable  things  are  for  all  mankind  to  know,  no 
man  can  know  them  all ;  and  that  the  wisest  men  to 
whom  the  world  pays  highest  tribute,  are  the  wisest 
because  they  have  not  attempted  to  know  all,  but, 
recognizing  the  value  of  Ignorance,  have  dared  to 
remain  ignorant  of  much.  Intellectual  giants  they 
are ;  intellectual  babes  they  are,  also.  The  man  had 
thought  that  there  was  nothing  that  these  men — these 
wise  ones — did  not  know.  He  came  to  understand 
that  even  he  knew  some  things  of  which  they  were 
ignorant.  So  his  determination  to  know  all  things 

IOT 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

passed  to  a  determination  to  know  nothing  of  many 
things  that  he  might  know  more  of  the  things  that 
were  most  closely  associated  with  his  life  and  work. 
He  determined  to  know  the  most  of  the  things  that, 
to  him,  were  most  vital. 

He  saw  also  that  he  must  work  out  his  dreams 
within  the  circle  of  his  own  limitations ;  and  that  his 
limitations  were  not  the  limitations  of  his  fellow 
workers ;  neither  were  their  limitations  his.  He  did 
not  know  yet  just  where  the  outmost  circle  of  his 
limitations  lay  but  he  knew  that  it  was  there  and  that 
he  must  make  no  mistake  when  he  came  to  it.  And 
this,  too,  is  true:  just  to  the  degree  that  the  man 
recognized  his  limitations,  the  circle  widened. 

Also  the  man  came  to  understand  that  there  are 
things  knowable  and  things  unknowable.  He  came 
to  see  that  truest  wisdom  is  in  this :  for  one  to  spend 
well  his  strength  on  the  knowable  things  and  refuse 
to  dissipate  his  intellectual  vigor  upon  the  unknow 
able.  Not  until  he  began  really  to  know  things  was 
he  conscious  in  any  saving  degree  of  the  unknowable. 
He  saw  that  those  who  strive  always  with  the  unknow 
able  beat  the  air  in  vain  and  exhaust  themselves 
in  their  senseless  folly.  He  saw  that  to  concern 
oneself  wholly  with  the  unknowable  is  to  rob  the 
world  of  the  things  in  which  are  its  life.  To  meditate 

108 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

much  upon  the  unknowable  is  an  intellectual  dissi 
pation  that  produces  spiritual  intoxication  and  often 
results  in  spiritual  delirium  tremens.  A  habitual 
spiritual  drunkard  is  a  nuisance  in  the  world.  The 
wisdom  of  Ignorance  is  in  nothing  more  apparent 
than  in  a  clear  recognition  of  the  unknowable. 

And  then  the  man  came  to  regret  knowing  some 
of  the  things  that  he  knew.  He  came,  in  some  things, 
to  wish  with  all  his  heart  that  he  had  Ignorance  where 
he  had  Knowledge.  He  found  that  much  of  the  time 
and  strength  that  he  desired  to  spend  in  acquiring  the 
knowledge  that  would  help  him  to  work  out  his 
dreams,  he  must  spend,  instead,  in  ridding  himself  of 
knowledge  that  he  had  already  acquired.  He  learned 
that  to  forget  is  quite  as  necessary  as  to  remember 
and  very  often  much  more  difficult.  Young  he  was, 
and  strong  he  was,  but,  already,  he  felt  the  dragging 
power  of  the  things  he  would  have  been  better  for  not 
knowing — the  things  he  desired  to  forget.  They 
were  very  little  things  in  comparison  to  the  things 
that  in  the  future  he  would  wish  to  forget;  but  to 
him,  at  this  time,  they  did  not  seem  small.  So  it  was 
that,  in  his  effort  to  acquire  Knowledge,  the  man 
began  to  strive  also  for  Ignorance. 

I  do  not  know  what  it  was  that  the  man  had 
learned  that  he  desired  to  forget.  My  story  is  not  the 

109 


THEIR  YESTEKDAYS 

kind  of  a  story  that  tells  those  things.  I  know,  only, 
that  for  him  to  forget  was  imperative.  I  know,  only, 
that  had  he  held  fast  to  Ignorance  in  some  things  of 
which  he  had  gained  knowledge,  it  would  have  been 
better.  For  him  in  some  things  Ignorance  would 
have  been  the  truest  wisdom.  Ignorance  would  have 
helped  him  to  work  out  his  dreams  when  Knowledge 
only  hindered  by  forcing  him  to  spend  much  time 
striving  to  forget.  Those  who  know  too  much  of  evil 
find  it  extremely  difficult  to  gain  knowledge  of  the 
good.  Those  who  know  too  much  of  the  false  find  it 
very  hard  to  recognize  the  true.  A  too  great  knowl 
edge  of  things  that  are  wrong  makes  it  almost  impos 
sible  for  one  to  believe  in  that  which  is  right.  Igno 
rance,  rightly  understood,  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  Thir 
teen  Truly  Great  Things  of  Life. 

And  then  this  man,  in  learning  the  value  of  Igno 
rance,  came  perilously  near  believing  that  no  manS 
could  know  anything.  He  came  dangerously  near  the 
belief  that  Knowledge  is  all  a  mirage  toward  which 
men  journey  hopelessly;  a  phantom  to  be  grasped 
by  no  hand;  a  will-o'-the-wisp  to  be  followed  -here 
and  there  but  leading  nowhere.  He,  for  a  little,  said 
that  Ignorance  is  the  truest  wisdom.  He  believed, 
for  a  time,  that  to  say  always :  "I  do  not  know,"  is 
the  height  of  all  intelligence.  One  by  one,  he  saw 

110 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

his  intellectual  idols  fal1  in  the  dust  of  the  common 
place.  Little  by  little,  he  discovered  that  the  intel 
lectual  masters  he  had  served  were  themselves  only 
servants.  His  intellectual  Gods,  he  found  to  be  men 
like  himself.  And  so,  for  a  while,  he  said:  "We 
can  know  nothing.  We  can  only  think  that  we  know. 
We  can  only  pretend  to  know.  There  is  no  real 
Knowledge  but  only  Ignorance.  Ignorance  should  be 
exalted.  In  Ignorance  lies  peace,  contentment,  happi 
ness,  and  safety."  Even  of  his  work — of  his  dreams 
he  said  this.  He  said :  "It  is  no  use."  To  the  very 
edge  of  this  pit  he  came  but  he  did  not  fall  in. 

To  accept  the  fact  of  the  unknowable  without 
losing  his  faith  in  the  knowable:  to  recognize  the 
unknown  without  losing  in  the  least  his  grip  upon 
the  known:  to  find  the  Knowledge  of  Yesterday 
becoming  the  Ignorance  of  to-day  and  still  hold  fast 
to  the  Knowledge  of  the  present;  to  watch  his  intel 
lectual  leaders  dropping  to  the  rear  and  to  follow 
as  bravely  those  who  were  still  in  the  front:  to  see 
his  intellectual  heroes  fall  and  his  intellectual  idols 
crumbling  in  the  dust  and  still  to  keep  burning  the 
fire  of  his  enthusiasm :  to  find  Knowledge  so  often  a 
curse  and  Ignorance  a  blessing  and  still  to  desire 
Knowledge:  all  this,  the  man  learned  that  he  must 
do  if  he  would  work  out  his  dreams.  That  which 

111 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

saved  the  man  from  the  pit  of  hopeless  disbelief  in 
everything  and  helped  him  to  a  clear  understanding 
of  Ignorance,  was  this :  he  went  back  again  into  his 
Yesterdays. 

From  sheltered  fence  corners  and  hidden  woodland 
hollows,  from  the  lee  of  high  banks,  and  along  the 
hedge  in  the  garden,  the  last  worn  and  ragged  rem 
nant  of  winter's  garment  was  gone.  The  brook  in 
the  valley,  below  the  little  girl's  house,  had  broken 
the  last  of  its  fetters  and  was  rejoicing  boisterously 
in  its  freedom.  The  meadow  and  pasture  lands 
showed  the  tender  green  of  the  first  grass  life.  Pussy 
willow  buds  were  swelling  and  over  the  orchard  and 
the  wood  a  filmy  veil  of  summer  color  was  dropped 
as  though  by  fairy  hands.  In  the  cherry  tree,  a  pair 
of  brown  birds,  just  returning  from  their  southern 
home,  were  discussing  the  merits  of  the  nearby  hedge 
as  a  building  site:  the  madam  bird  insisting,  as 
women  will,  that  the  beautiful  traditions  of  the  spot 
made  it,  for  home  building,  peculiarly  desirable.  It 
was  a  well  known  fact,  said  she,  that  brown  birds 
had  builded  there  for  no  one  knows  how  many  ages. 
Even  in  the  far  away  city,  the  man  felt  the  season  in 
the  air.  The  reek  of  city  odors  could  not  altogether 
drown  the  subtle  perfume  that  betrayed  the  near 
presence  of  the  spring.  As  though  the  magic  of  the 

112 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

budding,  sprouting,  starting,  time  of  the  year  placed 
him  under  its  spell,  the  man  went  back  to  the  spring 
time  of  his  life — back  into  his  Yesterdays. 

Once  again,  he  walked  under  the  clear  skies  of 
childhood.  Once  again,  he  lived  in  the  blessed, 
blessed,  days  when  he  had  nothing  to  forget — when 
his  mind  and  life  were  as  a  mountain  brook  that, 
clear  and  pure,  from  the  spring  of  its  birth  runs  ever 
onward,  outward,  turning  never  back,  pausing  never 
to  form  stagnant,  poisonous,  pools.  And  there  it 
was — in  his  Yesterdays — in  the  pure  sunlight  of 
childhood — that  he  found  new  intellectual  faith — 
that  he  came  to  a  right  understanding  of  the  real 
wisdom  of  Ignorance. 

The  intellectual  giants  of  his  Yesterdays — those 
wise  ones  upon  whose  learning  he  looked  with  child 
ish  awe — who  were  they?  Famous  scholars  who 
lectured  in  caps  and  gowns  and  words  of  many  syl 
lables  upon  themes  of  mighty  interest  to  themselves  ? 
Students  who,  in  their  laboratory  worlds,  discovered 
many  wonderful  things  that  were  not  so  and  solved 
many  puzzling  problems  with  solutions  that  were 
right  and  entirely  satisfactory  until  the  next  gradu 
ating  class  discovered  them  to  be  all  wrong  and  no 
solution  at  all  ?  Great  religious  leaders  who  were  su- 
peraaturally  called,  divinely  commissioned,  and 
•  113 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

armed  with  holy  authority  to  point  out  the  true  and 
only  way  of  life  until  some  other  with  the  same  call, 
commission,  and  authority,  pointed  out  a  wholly  dif 
ferent  true  and  only  way?  Great  statesmen  upon 
whose  knowledge  and  leadership  the  salvation  of  the 
nation  depended,  until  the  next  election  discovered 
them  to  be  foolish  puppets  of  a  dishonest  and  corrupt 
party  and  put  new  leaders  in  their  places  to  save  the 
nation  with  a  new  brand  of  political  salvation,  the 
chief  value  of  which  was  its  newness?  No  indeed! 
Such  as  these  were  not  the  intellectual  giants  of  the 
man's  Yesterdays.  The  heights  of  knowledge  in  those 
days  were  held  by  others  than  these. 

One  of  the  very  highest  peaks  in  the  whole  moun 
tain  range  of  learning,  in  the  Yesterdays,  was  held 
by  the  hired  man.  Again,  at  chore  time,  the  boy 
followed  this  wise  one  about  the  stables  and  the  barn, 
watching,  from  a  safe  position  near  the  door,  while 
the  horses  were  groomed  and  bedded  down  for  the 
night.  Again  the  pungent  odors  from  the  stalls,  the 
scent  of  the  straw  and  the  hay  in  the  loft,  the  smell 
of  harness  leather  damp  with  sweat  was  in  his  nostrils 
and  in  his  ears,  the  soft  swish  of  switching  tails,  the 
thud  of  stamping  hoofs,  the  contented  munching  of 
grain,  the  rustle  of  hay,  with  now  and  then  a  low 
whinny  or  an  angry  squeal.  And  fearlessly  to  and 

114 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

fro  in  this  strange  world  moved  the  hired  man.  In 
and  out  among  the  horses  he  passed,  perfectly  at 
home  in  the  stalls,  seeming  to  share  the  most  inti 
mate  secrets  of  the  horse  life. 

Everything  that  there  was  to  know  about  a  horse, 
confidently  thought  the  little  boy,  this  wonderful  man 
knew.  The  very  language  that  he  used  when  talking 
about  horses  was  a  language  full  of  strange,  hard, 
words,  the  meaning  of  which  was  hidden  from  the 
childish  worshiper  of  wisdom.  Such  words  as  "ring 
bone"  and  "spavin"  and  "heaves"  and  "stringhalt" 
and  "pastern"  and  "stifle"  and  "wethers"  and  "girth" 
and  "hock,"  to  the  boy,  seemed  to  establish,  beyond 
all  question,  the  intellectual  greatness  of  the  one  who 
used  them  just  as  words  of  many  syllables  sometimes 
fix  for  older  children  the  position  on  the  intellectual 
heights  of  those  who  use  them.  "Chiaroscuro," 
"cheiropterous,"  "eschatology,"  and  the  "unearned 
increment" — who,  in  the  common,  every  day,  grown 
up,  world,  would  dare  question  the  artistic,  scientific, 
religious,  or  political,  knowledge  of  one  who  could 
talk  like  that? 

Nor  did  the  intellectual  strength  of  this  wise  one 
of  the  Yesterdays  exhaust  itself  with  the  scientific 
knowledge  of  horses.  He  was  equally  at  home  in 
the  co-ordinate  sciences  of  cows  and  pigs  and  chickens. 

115 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

Again  the  boy  stood  in  the  cow  shed  laboratory  and 
watched,  with  childish  wonder,  the  demonstration 
of  the  master's  superior  wisdom  as  the  white  streams 
poured  into  the  tinkling  milk  pail.  How  did  he  do  it 
• — wondered  the  boy — where  did  this  wizard  in  over 
alls  and  hickory  shirt  and  tattered  straw  hat  acquire 
his  marvelous  scientific  skill  ? 

In  the  garden,  the  orchard,  or  the  field,  it  was  the 
same.  ~No  secret  of  nature  was  hidden  from  this 
learned  one.  He  knew  whether  potatoes  should  be 
planted  in  the  dark  or  light  of  the  moon:  whether 
next  winter  would  be  "close"  or  "open":  whether 
the  coming  season  would  be  "early"  or  "late": 
whether  next  summer  would  be  "wet"  or  "dry."  Al 
ways  he  could  tell,  days  ahead,  whether  it  would  rain 
or  if  the  weather  would  be  fair.  With  a  peach  tree 
twig  he  could  tell  where  to  dig  for  water.  By  many 
signs  he  could  say  whether  luck  would  be  good  or 
bad.  Small  wonder  that  the  boy  felt  very  ignorant, 
very  humble,  in  the  presence  of  this  wise  one ! 

Then,  one  day,  the  boy,  to  his  amazement,  learned 
that  this  wizard  of  the  barnyard  knew  nothing  at  all 
about  fairies.  Common,  every  day,  knowledge  was 
this  knowledge  of  fairies  to  the  boy:  but  the  wise 
one  knew  nothing  about  them.  So  dense  was  his 
ignorance  that  he  even  seemed  to  doubt  and  smiled  an 

116 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

incredulous  smile  when  the  boy  tried  to  enlighten 
him. 

It  was  a  great  day  in  his  Yesterdays  when  the  boy 
discovered  that  the  hired  man  did  not  know  about 
fairies. 

As  the  years  passed  and  the  time  approached  when 
the  boy  was  to  become  a  man,  he  learned  the  meaning 
of  many  words  that  were  as  strange  to  the  intellectual 
hero  of  his  childhood  as  the  language  of  that  com 
panion  of  horses  had  once  been  strange  to  him.  In 
time,  much  of  the  knowledge  of  that  barnyard  sage 
became,  to  the  boy,  even  as  the  boy's  knowledge  of 
fairies  had  been  to  the  man.  Still — still — it  was  a 
great  day  in  his  Yesterdays  when  the  boy  discovered 
that  the  hired  man  did  not  know  about  fairies.  Per 
haps,  though,  it  was  just  as  well  that  the  hired  man 
did  not  know.  If  he  had  become  too  familiar  with 
the  fairies,  his  potatoes  might  not  have  been  planted 
either  in  the  light  or  the  dark  of  the  moon  and  the 
world's  potatoes  must  be  planted  somehow. 

Equally  great  in  his  special  field  of  knowledge  was 
the  old,  white  haired,  negro  who  lived  in  a  tiny  cabin 
just  a  little  way  over  the  hill.  Strange  and  awful 
were  the  things  that  lie  knew  about  the  fearsome, 
supernatural,  creatures,  that  lived  and  moved  in  the 
unseen  world.  Of  "hants"  and  "spirits"  and 

117 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

"witches"  and  "hoodoos"  he  told  the  boy  with  such 
earnest  confidence  and  so  convincing  a  manner  that 
to  doubt  was  impossible.  In  the  unknowable  world, 
the  old  negro  moved  with  authority  unquestioned, 
with  piety  above  criticism,  with  a  religious  zeal  of 
such  warmth  that  the  boy  was  often  moved  by  the 
old  man's  wisdom  and  goodness  to  go  to  him  with 
offerings  from  mother's  pantry. 

And  then,  one  day,  the  boy  discovered  that  this 
wonderfully  wise  one  could  neither  read  nor  write. 
Everybody  that  the  boy  knew,  in  the  grown  up  world, 
could  read  and  write.  The  boy  himself  could  even 
read  "cat"  and  "rat"  and  "dog."  Vaguely  the  boy 
wondered,  even  then,  if  the  old  black  saint's  lack  of 
those  commonplace  accomplishments  accounted,  in 
any  way,  for  his  marvelous  knowledge  of  the  unseen 
world. 

And  father — father — was  the  greatest,  the  wisest, 
and  the  best  man  that  ever  lived.  The  boy  wondered, 
sometimes,  why  the  Bible  did  not  tell  about  his 
father.  Surely,  in  all  the  world,  there  was  no  other 
man  so  good  as  he.  And,  as  for  wisdom!  There 
was  nothing — nothing — that  father  did  not  know! 
Always,  when  other  men  came  to  see  them,  there  was 
talk  of  such  strange  things  as  "government"  and 
"party"  and  "campaigns"  and  "senators"  and  "con- 

118 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

gressmen" — things  that  the  boy  did  not  in  the  least 
know  about — but  he  knew  that  his  father  knew, 
which  was  quite  enough,  indeed,  for  a  boy  of  his  age 
to  know. 

The  boy,  in  his  Yesterdays,  wondered  greatly  when 
he  heard  his  father  sometimes  wish  that  he  could  be  a 
boy  again.  To  him,  in  the  ignorance  of  his  child 
hood,  such  a  wish  was  very  strange.  Not  until  the 
boy  had  himself  become  a  man  and  had  learned  to 
rightly  value  Ignorance  did  he  understand  his 
father's  wish  and  in  his  heart  repeat  it. 

But  there  was  one  in  those  Yesterdays,  upon  whose 
knowledge  the  boy  looked  in  admiring  awe,  who 
taught  him  that  which  he  could  never  outgrow.  Very 
different  from  the  wisdom  of  the  hired  man  was 
the  wisdom  of  this  one.  Very  different  was  his 
knowledge  from  the  knowledge  of  the  old  negro.  Nor 
was  his  learning  like,  in  any  way,  to  the  learning  that 
made  the  boy's  father  so  good  and  so  wise  among 
men. 

But  this  leader  did  not  often  come  openly  to  the 
boy's  home.  Always,  when  his  mother  saw  the  boy 
in  the  company  of  this  one,  she  called  him  into  the 
house,  and  often  she  explained  to  him  that  the  one 
whom  he  so  admired  was  a  bad  boy  and  that  she  did 
not  wish  her  little  son  to  play  with  him.  So  this 

119 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

intellectual  leader  of  the  Yesterdays  was  forced  to 
come,  stealthily,  through  the  orchard,  dodging  from 
tree  to  tree,  until,  from  behind  the  woodshed,  he 
could,  with  a  low  whistle,  attract  the  attention  of  his 
admiring  disciple  and  beckon  him  to  his  side.  Then 
the  two  would  slip  away  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  or 
down  behind  the  barn  where,  safe  from  mother's 
watchful  eye,  the  boy  could  enjoy  the  companion 
ship  of  this  one  whom  Knowledge  had  so  distin 
guished. 

And  often  the  older  boy  laughed  at  the  Ignorance 
of  his  younger  companion — laughed  and  sneered  at 
him  in  the  pride  of  superior  learning — while  the 
little  boy  felt  ashamed  and,  filled  with  admiration  for 
his  forbidden  friend,  wondered  if  he  would  ever  grow 
to  be  as  wise.  Scarcely  could  he  hope,  for  instance, 
to  be  able,  ever,  to  smoke  and  chew  and  swear  in  so 
masterful  a  way.  And  the  little  learner's  face  would 
beam  with  timid  adoration  and  envy  as  he  listened  to 
the  tales  of  wicked  adventures  so  boastfully  related 
by  his  teacher.  Would  he,  could  he,  ever  be  so  bold, 
so  wise  in  knowledge  of  the  world  ? 

Poor  little  boy  in  the  Yesterdays  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  value  of  Ignorance !  Poor  boys  in  the  grown 
up  world — admiring  and  envying  those  who  know 
more  of  evil  than  themselves ! 

120 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

So,  always,  secretly,  the  boy,  as  the  years  passed, 
gained  the  knowledge  that  makes  men  wish  that 
they  could  be  boys  again.  So,  always,  do  men  learn 
the  value  of  Ignorance  too  late. 

And  then,  as  the  man  lived  again  in  his  Yester 
days,  and,  realizing  in  his  manhood  the  value  of 
Ignorance,  wished  that  he  could  be  a  boy  again,  the 
little  girl  came  to  take  her  place  in  his  intellectual 
life  even  as  she  took  her  place  in  all  the  life  of  his 
boyhood.  Again  he  saw  her  wondering  eyes  as  she 
stood  with  him  in  the  stable  door  to  watch  the  hired 
man  among  the  horses.  Again  he  felt  her  timid 
hand  in  his  as  he  led  her  to  a  place  where,  safe  from 
horns  and  heels,  they  could  observe,  together,  the 
fascinating  operation  of  milking.  Together  they 
listened  to  the  words  of  strange  wisdom  and  marveled 
at  the  knowledge  of  the  barnyard  scientist. 

All  that  the  boy  learned  from  the  old  negro,  of 
the  fearsome  creatures  that  inhabit  the  unseen  world, 
he,  in  turn,  gave  to  the  little  girl.  And  sometimes 
she  even  went  with  him  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  cabin 
over  the  hill;  there  to  gaze,  half  frightened,  at  the 
black-faced  seer  who  had  such  store  of  awful  wisdom. 

The  boy's  pride  in  his  father's  superior  goodness 
and  wisdom  she  shared  fully — because  he  was  the 
father  of  the  boy. 

121 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

All  the  sweet  lore  of  childhood  was  theirs  in  com 
mon.  All  the  wise  Ignorance  of  his  Yesterdays  she 
shared. 

Only  in  the  boy's  forbidden  friendship  with  that 
one  who  had  such  knowledge  of  evil  the  little  girl  did 
not  share.  This  knowledge — the  knowledge  that  was 
to  go  with  him,  even  in  his  manhood  years,  and 
which,  at  last,  would  teach  him  the  real  value  of 
Ignorance — the  boy  gained  alone.  Sadly,  the  man 
remembered  how,  sometimes,  when  the  boy  had  stolen 
away  to  drink  at  that  first  muddy  fountain  of  evil, 
he  would  hear  her  calling  and  would  be  held  from 
answering  by  the  jeers  of  his  wicked  teacher.  But 
never  when  he  was  playing  with  the  little  girl  did 
the  boy  answer  the  signal  whistle  of  that  one  whose 
knowledge  he  envied  but  of  whose  friendship  he  was 
ashamed. 

In  his  Yesterdays,  the  ignorance  of  his  little  girl 
mate  was  an  anchor  that  held  the  boy  from  drifting 
too  far  in  the  current  of  evil.  In  his  Yesterdays, 
the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  his  father  was  not  a 
will-o'-the-wisp  but,  to  the  boy,  a  steady  guiding  light. 
What  mattered,  then,  if  the  knowledge  of  the  old 
negro  was  but  a  foolish  mirage  ?  What  mattered  if 
the  hired  man  did  not  know  about  fairies  or  if  he  did 
know  so  many  things  that  were  not  so?  So  it  was 

122 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

that  the  man  came  to  know  the  value  of  Ignorance. 
So  it  was  that  the  man  did  not  fall  into  the  pit  of 
saying:  "There  is  only  Ignorance." 

And  so  it  was,  as  he  returned  again  from  his 
Yesterdays,  that  day  when  even  the  reeking  atmos 
phere  of  the  city  could  not  hide,  altogether,  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  spring,  that  the  memory  of  the  little  girl 
was  with  him  even  as  the  perfume  of  the  season  was 
in  the  air. 


It  was  the  time  of  the  first  flowers. 

The  woman  had  been  out,  somewhere,  on  a  busi 
ness  errand  and  was  returning  to  the  place  where 
she  worked.  A  crowd  had  gathered,  blocking  the 
sidewalk,  and  she  was  forced  to  stop.  Quickly,  as  if 
by  magic,  the  people  came  running  from  all  direc 
tions.  The  woman  was  annoyed.  Her  destination 
was  only  a  few  doors  away  and  she  had  much  work, 
still,  to  do  before  the  remaining  hours  of  the  after 
noon  should  be  gone.  She  could  not  cross  the  street 
without  going  back  for  the  traffic  was  very  heavy. 
She  faced  about  as  if  to  retrace  her  steps,  then, 
paused  and  turned  again.  The  street  would  be  open 
in  a  moment.  It  would  be  better  to  wait.  Above  the 
heads  of  the  people  she  could  see,  already,  the  helmets 

123 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

of  the  police  clearing  the  sidewalk.  Pushing  into 
the  jam,  she  worked  slowly  forward. 

Clang,  clang,  clang,  with  a  rattle  and  clatter  and 
crash,  a  patrol  wagon  swung  up  to  the  curb — so  close 
that  a  spatter  of  mud  from  the  gutter  fell  on  the 
woman's  skirt.  The  wagon  wheeled  and  backed. 
The  police  formed  a  quick  lane  across  the  sidewalk. 
The  crowd  surged  forward  and  carried  the  woman 
close  against  the  blue  coated  barrier.  Down  the 
lane  held  by  the  officers  of  the  law,  so  close  to  the 
woman  that  she  could  have  touched  them,  came  two 
poor  creatures  who  were  not  ignorant  of  what  is  com 
monly  called  the  world.  They  had  seen  life — so  the 
world  would  have  said.  They  were  wise.  They  had 
knowledge  of  many  things  of  which  the  woman,  who 
shrank  back  from  them  in  horror,  knew  nothing. 
Their  haggard,  painted,  faces,  their  disheveled  hair, 
their  tawdry  clothing,  false  jewels,  and  drunken 
blasphemies,  drew  a  laugh  from  the  crowd. 

Upon  the  soul  of  the  woman  the  laughter  of  the 
crowd  fell  like  a  demon  laugh  from  the  depths  of 
hell.  Almost  she  shrieked  aloud  her  protest.  Be 
cause  she  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman,  she  almost 
shrieked  aloud. 

It  was  over  in  an  instant.  The  patrol  wagon  rum 
bled  away  with  its  burden  of  woe.  The  crowd  melted 

124 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

as  magically  as  it  had  gathered.  At  the  entrance  of 
the  building  where  she  worked,  the  woman  turned  to 
look  back,  as  though  fascinated  by  the  horror  of  that 
which  she  had  seen.  But,  upon  the  surface  of  that 
sea  of  life,  there  was  not  the  faintest  ripple  to  mark 
the  spot  of  the  tragedy. 

And  the  crowd  had  laughed. 

The  woman  knew  the  character  of  that  place  so 
near  the  building  in  which  she  worked.  Several 
times,  each  day,  she  passed  the  swinging  doors  of 
the  saloon  below  and,  always,  she  saw  men  going 
in  and  out.  Many  times  she  had  caught  glimpses 
of  the  faces  of  those  who  occupied  the  rooms 
above  as  they  watched  at  the  windows.  When 
first  she  went  to  work  she  had  known  little  of  such 
things,  but  she  was  learning.  Not  because  she  wished 
to  learn  but  because  she  could  not  help  it.  But  the 
knowledge  of  such  things  had  come  to  her  so  gradu 
ally  that  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  knowing  even 
as  she  came  to  know.  She  had  become  familiar  with 
the  fact  without  being  forced  to  feel. 

Perhaps,  if  the  incident  had  occurred  a  few  years 
later,  when  the  woman's  knowledge  was  more  com 
plete,  she,  herself,  might  have  been  able  to  laugh 
with  the  crowd.  This  knowledge  that  enables  one 
so  to  laugh  is,  seemingly,  much  prized  these  days 

125 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

among  those  who  have  not  the  wisdom  to  value  Igno 
rance. 

The  afternoon  passed,  as  such  afternoons  must, 
and  the  woman  did  her  work.  What  mattered  the 
work  that  was  being  wrought  in  the  soul  of  her 
womanhood — the  work  committed  to  her  hands — the 
work  that  refused  to  recognize  her  womanhood — 
that  work  was  done — and  that  is  all  that  seems  to 
matter.  And,  when  her  day's  work  was  done,  the 
woman  boarded  a  car  for  her  home. 

It  was  an  hour  when  many  hundreds  of  toilers 
were  going  from  their  labor.  So  many  hundreds 
there  were  that  the  cars  could  scarcely  hold  them 
and  there  were  seats  for  only  a  few.  Among  those 
hundreds  there  were  many  who  were  proud  of  their 
knowledge  of  life.  There  were  not  many  who  knew 
the  value  of  Ignorance.  The  woman  who  knew  that 
she  was  a  woman  was  crowded  in  a  car  where  there 
was  scarcely  room  for  her  to  stand.  She  felt  the 
rude  touch  of  strangers — felt  the  bodies  of  strange 
men  forced  against  her  body — felt  their  limbs 
crushed  against  her  limbs — felt  their  breath  in  her 
face — felt  and  trembled  in  frightened  shame.  In 
that  car,  crowded  close  against  the  woman,  there 
were  men  whose  knowledge  of  life  was  very  great. 
By  going  to  the  lowest  depths  of  the  city's  shame, 

126 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

where  the  foulest  dregs  of  humanity  settle,  they 
had  acquired  that  knowledge. 

At  first  the  woman  had  dreaded  those  evening  trips 
from  work  in  the  crowded  cars.  But  it  was  an 
everyday  experience  and  she  was  becoming  accus 
tomed  to  it.  She  was  learning  not  to  mind.  That 
is  the  horror  of  it — she  was  learning  not  to  mind. 

But  this  night  it  was  different.  The  heart  of  her 
womanhood  shrank  within  her  trembling  and  afraid 
— cried  out  within  her  in  protest  at  the  outrage.  In 
the  fetid  atmosphere  of  the  crowded  car;  in  the 
rough  touch  of  the  crushing  bodies  of  sweating 
humanity;  in  the  coarse,  low,  jest;  she  felt  again 
the  demon  that  she  had  heard  in  the  laughter  of  the 
crowd.  She  saw  again  the  horror  of  that  which  had 
leered  at  her  from  out  the  disfigured,  drunken,  faces 
of  the  poor  creatures  taken  by  the  police. 

Must  she — must  she  learn  to  laugh  that  laugh 
with  the  crowd  ?  Must  she  gain  knowledge  of  the 
unclean,  the  vicious,  the  degrading  things  of  life  by 
actual  contact  ?  Was  it  not  enough  for  her  to  know 
that  those  things  were  in  the  world  as  she  knew  that 
there  was  fever  in  the  marsh  lands ;  or  must  she  go 
in  person  into  the  muck  and  mire  of  the  swamps  ? 

So  it  was  that  this  woman,  who  knew  herself  to  be 
a  woman,  did  not  crave  Knowledge,  but  Ignorance. 

127 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

[  She  prayed  to  be  kept  from  knowing  too  much.  And 
it  was  well  for  her  so  to  pray.  It  was  the  highest 
wisdom.  Because  she  knew  her  womanhood,  she 
was  afraid.  She  feared  for  her  dream  life  that  was 
to  be  beyond  the  old,  old,  door.  She  feared  for  that 
one  who,  perhaps,  would  come  to  cross  with  her 
the  threshold  for  it  was  given  this  woman  to  know 
that  only  with  one  in  whose  purity  of  life  she  be 
lieved  could  she  ever  enter  into  the  life  of  her 
dreams.  The  Master  of  Life,  in  His  infinite  wisdom, 
made  the  heart  of  womanhood  divinely  selfish.  This 
woman  knew  that  her  dreams  could  never  be  for  her 
save  through  her  belief  in  the  one  who  should  ask 
her  to  go  with  him  through  that  old,  old,  door.  And 
the  things  that  the  woman  found  herself  learning 
made  it  hard  for  her  to  believe  in  any  man.  The 
knowledge  that  was  forced  upon  her  was  breeding 
doubt  and  distrust  and  denial  of  good.  The  realiza 
tion  of  her  womanhood's  beautiful  dream  was  possi 
ble  only  through  wise  Ignorance.  She  must  fight 
to  keep  from  learning  too  much.j 

And  in  the  woman's  fight  there  was  this  to  help 
her:  in  the  crowd  that  had  laughed,  her  startled 
eyes  had  seen  one  or  two  who  did  not  laugh — one  or 
two  there  were  whose  faces  were  filled  with  pity  and 
with  shame.  Always,  in  the  crowded  cars,  there  was 

128 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

some  one  who  tried  quietly  to  shield  her  from  the 
press — some  one  who  seemed  to  understand.  It  was 
this  that  helped.  These  men  who  knew  the  value  of 
Ignorance  kept  the  spark  of  her  faith  in  men  alive. 
The  faith,  without  which  her  dreams  would  be  idle 
dreams,  impossible  of  fulfillment,  was  kept  for  her 
by  those  men  who  knew  the  value  of  Ignorance. 

The  woman  went  to  her  work  the  next  morning 
with  a  heart  that  was  heavy  with  dread  and  nerves 
that  were  quivering  with  fear.  The  brightness,  the 
beauty,  and  the  joy,  of  her  womanhood,  she  felt  to 
be  going  from  her  as  the  sunshine  goes  under  threat 
ening  clouds.  The  blackness,  the  ugliness,  and  the 
sorrow,  of  life,  she  felt  coming  over  her  as  fog  rolls 
in  from  the  sea.  The  faith,  trust,  and  hope,  that  is 
the  soul  of  womanhood  was  threatened  by  doubt, 
distrust,  and  despair.  The  gentleness,  sensitiveness, 
and  delicacy,  that  is  the  heart  of  womanhood  was 
beset  by  coarseness,  vulgarity,  and  rudeness.  Could 
she  harden  her  woman  heart,  steel  her  woman  nerves, 
and  make  coarse  her  woman  soul  to  withstand  the 
things  that  she  was  forced  to  meet  and  know  ?  And 
if  she  could — what  then — would  she  gain  or  lose 
thereby?  For  the  life  of  which  she  had  dreamed, 
would  she  gain  or  lose  ? 


129 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  a  voice  at  her  side  said: 
"You  are  ill  I" 

It  was  a  voice  of  authority  but  it  was  not  at  all 
unkind. 

Turning,  she  looked  up  into  his  face  and  stam 
mered  a  feeble  denial.  No,  she  was  not  ill. 

But  the  kind  eyes  looked  down  at  her  so  search- 
ingly,  so  gravely,  that  her  own  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  voice,  "this  won't  do  at  all. 
You  must  not  lose  your  grip,  you  know.  It  will  be 
all  right  to-morrow.  Take  the  afternoon  off  and  get 
out  into  the  fresh  air." 

And  something  in  his  voice — something  in  his 
grave,  steady,  eyes — told  her — made  her  feel  that  he 
understood.  It  helped  her  to  know  that  this  man  of 
large  affairs,  of  power  and  authority,  understood. 

So,  for  that  afternoon,  she  went  to  a  park  in  a 
distant  part  of  the  city  to  escape,  for  a  few  hours, 
the  things  that  were  crowding  her  too  closely.  Near 
the  entrance  of  the  park,  she  met  a  gray  haired 
policeman  who,  looking  at  her  keenly,  smiled  kindly 
and  touched  his  hat;  then,  before  she  had  passed 
from  sight,  he  turned  to  follow  leisurely  the  path 
that  she  had  taken.  Finding  a  quiet  nook  on  the 
bank  of  a  little  stream  that  was  permitted  to  run 
undisturbed  by  the  wise  makers  of  the  park,  the 

130 


The  lift;  that  crowded  her  so  closely  drifted  far.  far,  away 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

woman  seated  herself,  while  the  policeman,  unob 
served  by  her,  paused  not  far  away  to  watch  a  group 
of  children  at  play. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  blue  sky,  unstained  by  the  city 
smoke :  perhaps  it  was  the  sunbeams  that  filtered 
through  the  leafy  net-work  of  the  trees  to  fall  in 
golden  flakes  and  patches  on  the  soft  green :  perhaps 
it  was  the  song  that  the  little  brook  was  singing  as 
it  went  its  merry  way :  perhaps  it  was  the  twittering, 
chirping,  presence  of  the  feathery  folk  who  hopped 
and  flitted  so  cheerily  in  and  out  among  the  shrubs 
and  flowers — whatever  it  was  that  brought  it  about, 
the  life  that  crowded  her  so  closely  drifted  far,  far, 
away.  The  city  with  its  noisy  clamor,  with  its 
mad  rush  and  unceasing  turmoil,  was  gone.  The 
world  of  danger,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  was  forgotten. 
The  woman  lived  again  the  days  that  were  gone. 
The  sky  so  blue  above  her  head  was  the  sky  that 
arched  her  days  of  long  ago.  The  sunshine  that 
filtered  through  the  trees  was  the  same  golden  wealth 
that  enriched  the  days  of  her  childhood.  The  twit 
tering,  chirping,  feathery,  folk  were  telling  the  same 
old  stories.  The  little  brook  that  went  so  merrily  on 
its  way  was  singing  a  song  of  the  Yesterdays. 

They  were  free  days — those  Yesterdays — free  as 
the  days  of  the  feathery  folk  who  lived  among  the 

131 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

shrubs  and  flowers.  There  was  none  of  the  knowledge 
that,  with  distrust  and  doubt  and  despair,  shuts  in 
the  soul.  They  were  bright  days — those  Yesterdays 
— as  bright  as  the  sunlight  that  out  of  a  clear  sky 
comes  to  glorify  the  world.  There  was  none  of  that 
dark  and  dreadful  knowledge  that  shrouds  the  soul 
in  gloom.  And  they  were  glad  days — those  Yester 
days — glad  with  the  gladness  of  the  singing  brook. 
There  was  none  of  that  knowledge  that  stains  and 
saddens  the  heart. 

The  woman,  sitting  there  so  still  by  the  little 
brook,  did  not  notice  a  well  dressed  man  who  was 
strolling  slowly  through  the  park.  A  little  way 
down  the  walk,  the  man  turned,  and  again  went 
slowly  past  the  place  where  the  woman  sat.  Once 
more  he  turned  and  this  time  seated  himself  where  he 
could  watch  her.  The  man's  face  was  not  a  good 
face.  For  a  little  while  he  watched  the  woman,  then 
rising,  was  starting  leisurely  toward  her  when  the 
gray  haired  policeman  came  suddenly  into  view 
around  a  turn  in  the  path.  The  officer  did  not  hesi 
tate;  nor  was  he  smiling,  now,  as  he  stepped  in 
front  of  the  man.  A  few  crisp  words  he  spoke,  in  a 
low  tone,  and  pointed  with  his  stick.  There  was 
no  reply.  The  fellow  turned  and  slunk  away  while 
the  guardian  of  the  law,  with  angry  eyes,  watched 

132 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS  . 

him  out  of  sight,  then  turned  to  look  toward  the 
woman.  She  had  not  noticed.  The  officer  smiled 
and  quietly  strolled  on  down  the  path. 

The  woman  had  noticed  neither  the  man  nor  her 
protector  because  she  was  far,  far,  away  in  her 
Yesterdays.  She  did  not  heed  the  incident  because 
she  was  a  little  girl  again,  playing  beside  the  brook 
that  came  across  the  road  and  made  its  winding  way 
through  the  field  just  below  the  house.  It  was  only 
a  little  brook,  but  beautifully  clear  and  fresh,  for 
it  had  come  only  a  short  distance  from  its  birth  place 
in  a  glen  under  the  hill  that  she  could  see  from  her 
window.  In  some  places,  the  long  meadow  grass, 
growing  close  down  to  the  edge,  almost  touched 
above,  making  a  cool,  green,  cradle  arch  through 
which  the  pure  waters  flowed  with  soft  whispers  as 
though  the  baby  stream  were  crooning  to  itself  a 
lullaby.  In  other  stretches,  the  green  willows  bent 
far  over  to  dip  their  long,  slim,  fingers  in  the  slow 
current  that  crept  so  lazily  through  the  flickering 
light  and  shade  that  it  seemed  scarce  to  move  at  all. 
And  other  places  there  were,  where  the  streamlet 
chuckled  and  laughed  over  tiny  pebbly  bars  in  the 
sunlight  or  gurgled  past  where  flags  and  rushes  grew. 

Again,  with  her  dolls,  the  little  girl  played  on  the 
grassy  bank;  washing  their  tiny  garments  in  the 

133 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

clear  water  and  hanging  them  on  the  flags  or  willows 
to  dry;  resting  often  to  listen  to  the  fairy  song  the 
water  sang;  or  to  whisper  to  the  brook  the  secrets 
of  her  childhood  dreams.  The  drowsy  air  was  full 
of  the  sweet,  grassy,  smell  mingled  with  the  odor  of 
mint  and  the  perfume  of  the  willows  and  flags  and 
warm  moist  earth.  Gorgeous  winged  butterflies  zig 
zagged  here  and  there  from  flower  to  flower — now 
near  for  a  little — then  far  away.  Honeybees  droned 
their  hymns  of  industry  the  while  they  searched  for 
sweet  treasures.  And  now  and  then  a  tiny  green 
frog  would  come  out  of  a  shadowy  nook  in  the  bank 
of  the  stream  to  see  what  the  little  girl  was  doing ;  or 
a  bird  would  drop  from  out  the  blue  sky  for  a  drink 
or  a  bath  in  the  pebbly  shallows.  And  not  far  away 
— easily  within  call — mother  sat  on  the  shady  porch, 
with  her  sewing,  where  she  could  watch  over  her 
little  girl. 

Dear,  innocent,  sheltered,  protected,  Yesterdays — 
when  mother  told  her  child  all  that  was  needful  for 
her  to  know,  and  told  her  in  a  most  tender,  beautiful, 
way.  Dear,  blessed,  Yesterdays — when  love  did  not 
leave  vice  to  teach  the  sacred  truths  of  love — days 
that  were  days  of  blissful  Ignorance — not  vicious 
Ignorance  but  ignorance  of  the  vicious.  There  was 
a  wealth  of  Ignorance  in  those  Yesterdays  that  is  of 

134 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

more  worth  to  womanhood,  by  far,  than  much  knowl 
edge  of  the  world. 

And  often  the  boy  would  come,  too,  and,  together, 
they  would  wade  hand  in  hand  in  the  clear  flood, 
mingling  their  shouts  and  laughter  with  the  music 
of  their  playmate  brook,  while  the  minnows  darted 
to  and  fro  about  their  bare  legs ;  or,  they  would  build 
brave  dams  and  bridges  and  harbors  with  the  bright 
stones;  or,  best  of  all,  fashion  and  launch  the  ships 
of  childhood. 

Oh,  childish  ships  of  the  Yesterdays!  What 
precious  cargoes  they  carried !  What  priceless  treas 
ures  they  bore  to  the  far  away  port  of  dreams ! 

The  little  brook  was  a  safe  stream  for  the  boy  and 
the  girl  to  play  beside.  Nor  did  they  know,  then, 
that  their  streamlet  flowed  on  and  on  until  it  joined 
the  river;  and  that  the  river,  in  its  course,  led  it 
past  great  cities  that  poured  into  it  the  poisons  and 
the  filth  of  their  sewers,  fouling  its  bright  waters, 
until  it  was  unfit  for  children  to  play  beside. 

They  did  not  know,  then — but  the  woman  knew, 
now. 

And  what — she  thought  as  she  came  back  from  her 
Yesterdays — what  of  the  boy  who  had  played  with 
her  beside  the  brook?  He,  too,  must  have  learned 
what  happened  to  their  brook.  In  learning,  what 

135 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

had  happened  to  him — she  wondered — and.  wonder 
ing,  she  was  afraid. 

Because  she  was  no  longer  ignorant,  she  was  afraid 
for  the  mate  of  her  Yesterdays.  ~Not  that  she  thought 
ever  to  meet  him  again.  She  did  not  wish,  now,  to 
meet  him  for  she  was  afraid.  She  would  rather 
have  him  as  he  was  in  her  Yesterdays. 

Slowly  the  woman  turned  away  from  the  quiet 
seat  beside  the  brook.  It  was  time  for  her  to  go. 

Not  far  away,  she  passed  the  gray  haired  police 
man,  who  again  smiled  and  touched  his  hat. 

Smiling  in  return  she  bade  him:  "Good  after 
noon." 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss,"  he  said,  still  smiling 
gravely.  "Come  again,  Miss,  when  ye's  want  a  breath 
of  air  that's  pure  and  clean." 

May  heaven  bless,  for  the  sweet  sake  of  woman 
hood,  all  men  who  understand. 


136 


RELIGION 

T  was  springtime — blossoming  time — 
mating  time.  The  world  was  a  riot  of 
color  and  perfume  and  song. 

Every  twig  that  a  few  weeks  before 
had  been  a  bare,  unsightly  stick  was  now  a  miracle 
of  dainty  beauty.  From  the  creek,  below  the  little 
girl's  house,  the  orchard  hill  appeared  against  the 
soft,  blue,  sky  a  wonderous,  cumulus,  cloud  of  fleecy 
whiteness  flushed  with  a  glow  of  delicate  pink.  The 
meadows  and  pastures  were  studded  with  stars  of 
gold  and  pearl,  of  ruby  and  amethyst  and  silver. 
The  fairy  hands  that  had  thrown  over  the  wood  a 
filmy  veil  of  dainty  color  now  dressed  each  tree  and 
bush  in  robes  of  royal  fabric  woven  from  many  tints 
of  shimmering,  shining,  green. 

Through  the  amber  light  above  new  turned  fur 
rows;  amid  the  jewel  glint  of  water  in  the  sun;  in 
the  diamond  sparkle  of  the  morning;  against  the 
changing  opal  skies  of  evening ;  the  bees  and  all  their 
winged  kin  floated  and  darted,  flashed  and  danced, 
and  whirled,  from  flower  to  flower  and  field  to  field, 

137 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

from  blossom  to  blossom  and  tree  to  tree,  bearing 
their  pollen  'messages  of  love  and  life  while  sweet 
voiced  birds,  in  their  brightest  plumage,  burdened 
the  perfumed  air  with  the  passionate  melody  of  their 
mating  time. 

All  nature  seemed  bursting  with  eager  desire  to 
evidence  a  Creator's  power.  Every  tint  and  color, 
every  breath  of  perfume,  every  note  of  music,  every 
darting  flight  or  whirling  dance,  was  a  call  to  life — 
a  challenge  to  love — an  invitation  to  mate — a  dec 
laration  of  God.  The  world  throbbed  and  exulted 
with  the  passion  of  the  Giver  of  Life. 

Life  itself  begat  Religion. 

Not  the  least  of  the  Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things 
of  Life  is  Religion.  Religion  is  an  exaltation  of 
Life  or  it  is  nothing.  To  exalt  Life  truly  is  to  be 
most  truly  religious. 

But  the  man,  when  he  first  awoke  that  morning, 
did  not  think  of  Religion.  His  first  thought  was  a 
thought  of  lazy  gratitude  that  he  need  not  get  up. 
It  was  Sunday.  With  a  long  sigh  of  sleepy  content, 
he  turned  toward  the  wall  to  escape  the  too  bright 
light  that,  from  the  open  window,  had  awakened  him 
and  dozed  again. 

It  was  Sunday. 

There  are  bitter  cold,  icy,  snowy,  Sundays  in  mid- 
138 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

winter  when  one  hugs  the  cheerless  radiator  and, 
shivering  in  chilly  discomfort,  wishes  that  Sundays 
were  months  instead  of  days  apart.  There  are 
stifling,  sticky,  sweltering,  Sundays  in  midsummer 
when  one  prays,  if  he  can  pray  at  all,  for  the  night 
to  come.  And  there  are  blustering,  rainy,  sleety, 
dismal,  Sundays  in  the  fall  when  the  dead  hours  go 
in  funeral  procession  by  and  the  world  seems  a 
gloonr  tomb.  But  a  Sunday  in  blossoming  time! 
That  is  different!  The  very  milk  wagons,  as  they 
clattered,  belated,  down  the  street  rattled  a  cheery 
note  of  fellowship  and  good  will.  The  long  drawn 
call  of  the  paper  boy  had  in  it  a  hint  of  the  joy  of 
living.  And  the  rumble  of  an  occasional  passing 
cab  came  like  a  deep  undertone  of  peace. 

The  streets  were  nearly  empty.  The  stores  and 
offices,  with  closed  doors,  were  deserted  and  still.  A 
solitary  policeman  on  the  corner  appeared  to  be  medi 
tating,  indifferent  to  his  surroundings.  The  few 
pedestrians  to  be  seen  moved  leisurely  and  appeared 
as  though  in  a  mood  for  reflective  thought  and  quiet 
interest  in  the  welfare  of  their  fellows.  The  hurrying, 
scrambling,  jostling,  rushing  crowd;  the  clanging, 
crashing,  roaring  turmoil;  the  racking  madness,  the 
fierce  confusion,  the  cruel  selfishness  of  the  week 
day  world  was  as  a  dreadful  dream  in  the  night.  In 

139 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

the  hard  fought  battle  of  life,  the  world  had  called  a 
truce,  testifying  thus  to  the  place  and  power  of 
Religion. 

This  is  not  to  say  that  the  world  professes  Relig 
ion  ;  but  it  is  to  say  that  Religion  possesses  the  world. 
In  a  thousand,  thousand,  forms,  Religion  possesses 
the  world.  In  thoughts,  in  deeds,  in  words — in  song 
and  picture  and  story — in  customs  and  laws  and  in 
dustries — in  society,  state,  and  school — in  all  of  the 
Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of  Life,  Religion 
makes  itself  manifest  and  declares  its  power  over 
men.  If  one  proclaim  himself  without  Religion  then 
is  its  power  made  known  in  that  one's  peculiarity. 
If  Religion  did  not  possess  the  world,  to  scorn  it 
would  mark  no  one  as  different  from  his  fellows. 
And  this,  too,  is  true:  so  imperial  is  the  fact  of 
Religion,  that  he  who  would  deny  it  is  forced  to 
believe  so  firmly  in  his  disbelief  that  he  accepts  the 
very  thing  he  rejects,  disguised  in  a  dress  of  his  own 
making,  and  thus  bows  down  in  worship  before  a 
God  of  his  own  creation. 

To  many,  Sunday  is  a  day  of  labor.  To  many 
others,  it  is  a  day  of  roistering  and  debauch.  To 
some,  it  is  a  day  of  idleness  and  thoughtless  pleasure. 
To  some,  it  is  a  day  of  devotion  and  worship.  But 
still,  I  say,  that,  whatever  men,  as  individuals,  may 

140 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

do  with  the  day,  the  deserted  streets,  the  silent  stores, 
the  closed  banks,  the  empty  offices,  evidence  that,  to 
the  world,  this  day  is  not  as  other  days  and  give 
recognition — not  to  creeds  and  doctrines  of  warring 
sects  indeed — but,  to  Religion. 

Again  the  man  awoke.  Coming  slowly  out  of  his 
sleep  and  turning  leisurely  in  his  bed  he  looked 
through  the  open  window  at  the  day.  And  still  he 
did  not  think  of  Religion. 

Leisurely  he  arose  and,  after  his  bath,  shaved 
himself  with  particular  care.  With  particular  care 
he  dressed,  not  in  the  garb  of  every  day,  but  in 
fresher,  newer,  raiment.  Thus  did  he,  even  as  the 
world,  give  unthinking  testimony  to  the  power  and 
place  of  Religion. 

Later,  when  the  church  bells  sent  their  sweet  voiced 
invitations  ringing  over  the  city,  the  man  went  to 
church.  He  did  not  go  to  church  because  he  was 
a  religious  man  nor  because  he  was  in  a  religious 
mood ;  he  went  because  it  was  his  habit  to  go  occasion 
ally.  Even  as  most  men  sometimes  go  to  church,  so 
this  man  went.  Nor  did  he,  as  a  member  of  any 
religious  organization,  feel  it  his  duty  to  go.  He 
went  as  he  had  always  gone — as  thousands  of  others 
who,  like  himself,  in  habit  of  dress  and  manner  were 
giving  unconscious  testimony  to  the  power  of  Re- 

141 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

ligion  in  the  world,  went,  that  day,  to  some  place  of 
public  worship. 

The  streets  of  the  city  were  now  well  filled  with 
people.  Yesterday,  these  same  people,  in  the  same 
streets,  had  rushed  along  with  anxious,  eager, 
strained,  expressions  upon  their  faces  that  told  of 
nerves  tense,  minds  intent,  and  bodies  alert,  in  the 
battle  they  waged  for  daily  bread,  for  gain,  and  for 
all  the  things  that  are  held  by  men  to  be  worth  the 
struggle.  To-morrow,  these  same  people  would  again 
lose  themselves  in  the  fierce  and  strenuous  effort  of 
their  lives.  But  to-day,  they  walked  leisurely;  they 
spoke  calmly;  they  thought  coolly;  they  had  time  to 
notice  each  other;  to  greet  each  other,  to  smile,  to 
shake  each  others'  hands.  There  were  many  children, 
too,  who,  dressed  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  with  clean 
faces  and  subdued  manners,  even  as  their  parents, 
evidenced  the  power  of  Religion  in  the  life  of  human 
kind.  And,  even  as  their  parents,  the  children  knew 
it  not.  They  did  not  recognize  the  power  of  Religion 
in  their  lives. 

The  man  did  not  think  of  the  meaning  of  these 
things;  though  he  felt  it,  perhaps,  somewhat  as  he 
felt  the  warm  life  of  the  sun  filled  air :  he  sensed  it, 
perhaps,  as  he  sensed  the  beauty  of  the  morning.  He 
did  not  realize,  then,  how,  in  his  Dreams,  Relig- 

142 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

ion  had  subtly  manifested  itself.  He  did  not 
realize,  that,  in  his  Occupation,  he  was,  every  day, 
revealing  the  influence  of  Religion  in  his  life.  He 
had  seen  Religion  but  dimly  when  he  had  thought  to 
follow  the  golden  chain  of  Knowledge,  link  by  link, 
to  its  hidden  end.  Dimly  had  he  seen  it  when  he 
was  learning  the  value  of  Ignorance.  And  yet,  in  all 
of  these  things  it  had  been  even  as  it  would  be  in  all 
the  things  that  were  yet  to  come.  No  man  can 
escape  Religion.  Man  may  escape  particular  forms 
of  Religion,  indeed,  but  Religion  itself  he  cannot 
escape. 

With  many  others  the  man  entered  a  church.  An 
usher  gravely  led  him  to  a  seat.  I  do  not  know  what 
church  it  was  to  which  the  man  went  that  morning 
nor  does  it,  for  my  story,  matter  that  I  do  not  know. 
My  story  is  not  of  churches  nor  of  sects  nor  of  creeds. 
This  is  my  story:  that  the  man  came  to  realize  in 
his  life  the  power  of  Religion. 

It  may  have  been  the  beauty  of  the  morning  that 
did  it ;  it  may  have  been  that  the  week  just  past  was 
unusually  hard  and  trying  and  that  the  day  of  rest, 
therefore,  was  more  than  usual,  needed :  or,  perhaps, 
it  was  because  the  man  had  learned  that  he  could 
never  follow  the  golden  chain  of  Knowledge  to  its 
hidden  end  and  had  come  to  know  the  value  of  Igno- 

143 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

ranee  for  Eeligion  walks  ever  close  to  both  Knowl 
edge  and  Ignorance,  hand  in  hand  with  each;  what 
ever  it  was  that  brought  it  about,  the  man,  that 
Sunday,  came  to  realize  the  power  of  Religion  in 
the  world  and  in  his  own  manhood  life. 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  church  but  it  was  not  a 
sad  quietness.  The  people  moved  softly  and,  when 
they  spoke  at  all,  spoke  in  whispers  but  there  was  no 
feeling  of  death  in  the  air ;  rather  was  there  a  feeling 
of  life — a  feeling  of  life,  too,  that  was  very  unlike 
the  feeling  of  life  in  a  crowded  place  of  business  or 
amusement.  The  sweet,  plaintively  pleading,  tones 
of  the  organ  trembled  in  the  air.  The  glorious  sun 
shine  came  through  the  stained  glass  windows  soft 
ened  and  subdued.  Here  and  there  heads  were 
bowed.  The  people  became  very  still.  And,  in  the 
stillness,  the  man  felt  strongly  the  spirit  of  the  day 
and  place.  The  organ  tones  increased  in  volume. 
The  choir  filed  in.  The  preacher  entered.  The 
congregation  arose  to  sing  an  old  triumphant  hymn. 

The  man  did  not  sing,  but,  as  he  listened  to  the 
music  and  followed  the  words  of  the  hymn,  he  smiled. 
The  people  were  singing  about  unknowable  things — 
of  streets  of  gold  and  gates  of  pearl — of  crowns  and 
harps  and  the  throne  of  God. 

All  his  life,  the  man  had  known  that  hymn  but  he 
144 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

had  never  before  thought  of  it  just  as  he  thought 
of  it  that  morning.  He  looked  about  at  the  people 
who  were  singing.  Who  were  they?  Uneducated, 
irresponsible,  fanatical  dreamers  of  no  place  or  im 
portance  in  the  week  day  world  ?  ~No  indeed !  They 
were  educated,  responsible,  practical,  hard  headed, 
clear  brained,  people  of  power  and  influence — and — 
the  man  smiled  again — they  were  singing  aboiit 
unknowable  things.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the 
man  wondered  at  the  strangeness  of  it  all. 

When  the  minister  prayed,  the  man  listened  as  he 
had  never  listened  to  a  prayer  before.  He  felt 
baffled  and  bewildered  as  though  he  had  wandered 
into  a  strange  land,  among  strange  people,  of  whose 
customs  he  was  ignorant,  and  whose  language  he 
could  neither  speak  nor  understand.  Who  was  this 
man  who  seemed  on  such  familiar  terms  with  the 
Infinite  ?  Upon  what  did  he  base  his  assurance  that 
the  wealth  of  blessings  he  asked  for  himself  and  his 
people  would  be  granted  or  even  heard  ?  Had  he 
more  than  finite  mind  that  he  could  know  the  In 
finite  ? 

The  sermon  that  followed  was  largely  a  sermon 
about  unknowable  things.  It  was  full  of  beautiful, 
helpful,  thoughts  about  things  that  it  was  impossible 
for  anyone  to  really  know  anything  about.  Very 

145 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

familiar  were  the  things  that  the  minister  said  that 
morning.  Since  his  childhood,  the  man  had  heard 
them  over  and  over  many  times;  but  he  had  never 
before  thought  of  them  in  just  that  way. 

The  sermon  was  finished  and  the  beautifully  mys 
terious  and  impressive  words  of  the  benediction  were 
spoken  as  the  people  stood  with  bowed  heads,  hushed 
and  still.  Again  the  deep  tones  of  the  organ  trem 
bled  in  the  air  as  the  crowd  poured  forth  from  the 
building  into  the  street. 

The  man  was  thoughtful  and  troubled.  He  felt  as 
one,  who,  meeting  an  old  friend  after  many  years, 
finds  him  changed  beyond  recognition.  He  was  as 
one  visiting,  after  years  of  absence,  his  old  home  to 
find  the  familiar  landmarks  all  gone  with  the  years. 
He  was  sadly  conscious  that  something  had  gone  out 
of  his  life — that  something  exceedingly  precious  had 
been  taken  away  from  him  and  that  it  could  never  be 
replaced. 

Seriously,  sadly,  the  man  asked  himself:  must  his 
belief  in  Religion  go  as  his  faith  in  fairies  had  gone  ? 
Was  Religion,  after  all,  but  a  beautiful  game  played 
by  the  grown  up  world,  even  as  children  play  ?  And 
if,  indeed,  his  faith  must  go  because  songs  and 
prayers  and  sermons  have  to  do  so  largely  with  un 
knowable  things,  what  of  the  spirit  of  the  world 

146 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

expressed  in  the  day  that  is  so  set  apart  from  all  other 
days  ?  Sunday  is  a  fact  knowable  enough.  And  the 
atmosphere  of  the  church  is  another  fact  as  know- 
able  as  the  atmosphere  of  a  race  track,  a  foundry, 
or  a  political  convention.  And  the  fruits  of  Relig 
ion  in  the  lives  of  men — these  are  as  clearly  knowable 
as  the  fruits  of  drunkenness,  or  gambling,  or  licen 
tiousness.  The  man  was  as  sure  of  the  fruits  of 
Religion  as  he  was  sure  that  the  sun  was  shining— 
that  the  day,  so  warm  and  bright,  was  unlike  the 
cold,  hard,  stormy,  days  of  winter.  And  still — and 
still — the  songs  and  prayers  and  sermons  about  un 
knowable  things — must  his  belief  in  Religion  go  as 
his  faith  in  fairies  had  gone  ? 

Unknowable  things  ?  Yes — as  unknowable  as  that 
mysterious  something  that  colors  the  trees  and  plants 
and  flowers  with  tints  of  infinite  shadings — as  un 
knowable  as  that  which  puts  the  flavor  in  the  peach, 
the  strength  in  the  corn,  the  perfume  in  the  rose- 
as  unknowable  as  the  awful  force  that  reveals  itself 
in  the  lightning  flash  or  speaks  in  the  rolling  thunder 
— as  unknowable  as  the  mysterious  hand  that  holds 
the  compass  needle  to  the  north  and  swings  the  star 
worlds  far  beyond  the  farthest  reach  of  the  boasting 
eye  of  Science.  Unknowable  ?  Yes — as  unknowable 
as  that  which  Hes  safe  hidden  behind  the  most  com- 

147 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

monplace  facts  of  life — as  unknowable  indeed,  as 
Life  itself. 

"Nature,"  said  the  man,  in  answer  to  himself,  and 
smiled  at  the  foolishness  of  his  own  answer.  Is 
nature  then  so  knowable  ?  Are  all  her  laws  revealed ; 
all  her  secrets  known;  all  her  ways  understood;  all 
her  mysteries  made  clear?  Do  the  wise  men,  after 
all,  know  more  of  nature  than  they  do  of  God  ?  Do 
they  know  more  of  earth  than  of  heaven?  Do  they 
know  more  of  a  man's  mind  than  they  do  of  his  soul  ? 
And  yet — and  yet — does  one  refuse  to  live  because  he 
cannot  understand  the  mystery  of  life?  Does  one 
deny  the  earth  because  the  secrets  of  Nature  are 
unknowable?  Does  one  refuse  to  think  because 
thoughts  are  not  material  things — because  no  one 
has  ever  seen  a  thought  to  say  from  whence  it  came 
or  whither  it  went  ? 

Disbelief  demands  a  knowledge  as  exact  as  that 
demanded  by  belief.  To  deny  the  unknowable  is  as 
impossible  as  to  affirm  it.  If  it  be  true  that  man 
knows  too  much  to  believe  in  miracles  these  days, 
it  is  just  as  true  that  he  does  not  know  enough  to 
disbelieve  in  them.  And,  after  all,  there  is  no  reason 
why  anyone  should  believe  in  miracles;  neither  is 
there  any  reason  why  one  should  disbelieve  in  them. 

Every  altar  is  an  altar  to  an  unknown  God.  But 
148 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

man  does  not  refuse  to  believe  in  bread  because  he 
cannot  understand  the  mystery  of  the  wheat  field. 
One  believes  in  a  garden,  not  because  he  knows  how, 
from  the  same  soil,  water,  and  air,  Nature  produces 
strawberries,  potatoes,  sweet  corn,  tomatoes,  or 
lettuce,  but  because  fresh  vegetables  are  good.  The 
hungry  man  neither  believes  nor  disbelieves  but  sits 
down  to  the  table  and,  if  he  be  a  right  minded  man, 
gives  thanks  to  the  God  of  gardens  who,  in  ways  so 
unknowable,  gives  such  knowable  gifts  to  man. 

Nor  was  the  man,  at  this  time,  able  to  distinguish 
clearly  between  Religion  and  the  things  that  men 
have  piled  about  and  hung  upon  Religion.  There 
fore  was  he  troubled  about  his  waning  belief  and 
worried  because  of  his  growing  doubt.  He  did  not 
wish  to  doubt ;  he  wished  to  believe. 

In  all  these  many  years,  through  intellectual  pride 
or  selfish  ambition,  because  of  an  earnest  but  mis 
taken  purpose  to  make  clear,  or  in  a  pious  zeal  to 
emphasize,  men  have  been  piling  things  about  and 
hanging  things  upon  Religion;  and,  always,  they 
have  insisted  that  this  vast  accumulation  of  things  is 
Religion. 

These  things  that  men  have  hung  upon  Religion 
are  no  more  a  part  of  Religion  than  the  ivy  that 
grows  upon  the  stone  wall  of  a  fortress  is  a  part  of 

149 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

the  nation's  defensive  strength.  These  things  that 
men  have  piled  about  Religion  belong  to  it  no  more 
than  a  pile  of  trash  dumped  at  the  foot  of  a  cliff 
belongs  to  the  everlasting  hills.  But  these  traditions 
and  customs  of  men,  with  their  ever  multiplying 
confusions  of  doctrines  and  creeds  and  sects,  beauti 
ful  as  they  are,  hide  Religion  even  as  the  ivy  hides 
the  wall.  Even  as  the  accumulated  trash  of  the 
ages  piled  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  is  of  interest  to  the 
archaeologist  and  the  seeker  after  curious  junk,  so 
these  things  that  men  have  piled  about  Religion  are 
of  interest.  But  the  observer,  in  admiration  of  the 
ivy,  is  in  danger  of  ignoring  the  stern  realitj  of  the 
fortress.  The  curious  digger  in  the  pile  of  trash, 
if  his  interest  be  great,  heeds  not  the  grandeur  of  the 
cliff  that  towers  above  his  head. 

That  afternoon  the  man  went  for  a  long  walk. 
He  wished  to  think  out,  if  he  could,  the  things  that 
troubled  him. 

Without  plan  on  his  part,  his  walk  led  toward  a 
quarter  of  the  city  where  he  had  never  been  before 
and  where  he  came  at  last  to  an  old  cemetery.  The 
ancient  iron  gates,  between  their  vine  clad  columns 
of  stone,  were  invitingly  open  and  within  the  en 
closure  were  great  trees  that  locked  their  green  arms 
above  the  silent,  grass  grown,  graves  as  though  in 

150 


THEIR  YESTEEDAYS 

sheltering  kindness  for  the  dead.  Tempted  by  the 
beauty  of  the  place  the  man  entered,  and,  in  the  deep 
shade  of  the  old  trees,  screened  from  the  road  by 
their  mossy  trunks,  found  a  seat.  Here  and  there, 
among  the  old  graves  under  the  trees,  a  few  people 
moved  slowly ;  pausing  often  to  decipher  the  inscrip 
tions  upon  the  leaning  and  fallen  tombstones.  So 
old  was  that  ancient  burying  place  that  there  was 
left  among  the  living  no  one  to  keep  the  flowers  upon 
the  graves  and  visitors  came  only  from  idle  curiosity. 

And  it  was  so,  that,  as  the  man  sat  there  under  the 
quiet  old  trees,  the  graves  with  their  leaning  and 
fallen  tombstones,  or,  perhaps,  the  day  itself,  led  his 
mind  back  to  those  companion  graves  that  marked  the 
passing  of  his  boyhood — back  to  father  and  mother 
and  to  their  religion — back  to  the  religion  of  his 
Yesterdays.  And  the  week  of  toil  and  strife,  of 
struggle  and  of  storm,  slipped  far,  far,  away.  The 
disturbing  questions,  the  doubt  and  the  uncertainty 
of  the  morning,  raised  as  the  fogs  lift  to  leave  the 
landscape  clear. 

It  was  such  a  little  way  from  the  boy's  home  to  the 
church  that,  when  the  weather  was  fine,  they  always 
walked.  And  surely  no  day  could  have  been  finer 
than  that  Sunday  to  which  the  man  went  back.  As 
the  boy,  all  washed  and  combed  and  dressed  in  his 

151 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Sunday  best,  sat  on  the  big  gate  post  waiting  for  his 
father  and  mother,  it  seemed  to  him  that  every  living 
thing  about  the  place  knew  what  day  it  was.  In  the 
pasture  across  the  road,  the  horses,  leisurely  cropping 
the  new  grass,  paused  often  to  lift  their  heads  and 
look  about  with  an  air  of  kindly  interest  in  things  to 
which  they  would  have  given  no  heed  at  all  had  they 
been  in  week  day  harness.  And  one  old  gray,  finding 
an  inviting  spot,  lay  down  to  roll — got  up — and, 
because  it  felt  so  good,  lay  down  again  upon  his  other 
side ;  and  then,  as  if  regretting  that  he  had  no  more 
sides  to  rub,  stretched  himself  out  with  such  a  huge 
sigh  of  content  that  the  boy  on  the  gate  post  laughed ; 
whereat  the  horse  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  him 
as  though  to  say:  "Little  boy,  don't  you  know  that 
it  is  Sunday  ?"  Under  the  big  elm,  in  the  corner  of 
the  pasture,  the  cows  stood,  with  half  closed  eyes, 
chewing  their  cuds  with  an  air  of  pious  meditation. 
The  hens  strolled  sedately  about  singing  solemnly: 
ca-w-w,  ca-w-w,  ca-w-w,  and  the  old  red  rooster, 
standing  on  tiptoe,  flapped  his  wings  as  if  to  crow 
then  checked  himself  suddenly  and  looked  around  as 
if  to  say :  "Bless  me,  I  nearly  forgot  what  day  it  is !" 
Then  the  clear,  mellow,  tones  of  the  church  bell 
floated  across  the  little  valley  and  the  boy's  parents 
came  out  of  the  house.  The  dog,  stretched  at  full 

152 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

length  on  the  porch,  lifted  his  head  but  did  not  offer 
to  follow.  He,  too,  seemed  to  know,  thought  the  boy 
as  he  climbed  down  from  the  post  to  walk  soberly 
away  with  his  parents. 

Before  they  reached  the  lower  end  of  the  garden, 
the  little  girl  with  her  mother  and  uncle  came  out 
of  their  house  and,  at  the  gate,  waited  for  them  while 
the  little  girl  waved  her  hand'  in  greeting.  Then  the 
two  men  and  the  two  women  walked  on  ahead  and, 
as  the  boy  and  girl  followed,  the  boy,  looking  shyly 
at  his  companion,  saw  the  sunlight  on  her  soft, 
brown,  hair  that  was  so  prettily  arranged  with  a  blue 
ribbon — saw  the  merry  eyes  under  the  broad  brim 
of  her  best  hat — saw  the  flushed,  softly  rounded, 
cheek  with  the  dimple,  the  curve  of  the  red  lips,  and 
the  dainty  chin — saw  her  dress  so  clean  and  white 
and  starched — saw  and  wondered  if  the  angels  in 
heaven  could  be  more  beautiful  than  this  little  girl. 

So  they  went,  that  Sunday,  down  the  hill,  across 
the  creek,  and  up  the  gentle  slope  beyond,  until  they 
came  to  the  cross  roads  where  the  white  church  stood 
under  the  old  elm  and  maple  trees.  Already  there 
were  many  teams  standing  under  the  sheds  or  tied  to 
the  hitch  racks  along  the  side  of  the  road.  And 
by  the  roads  that  led  away  in  four  directions, 
through  the  fields  and  meadows  and  pastures  of  the 

153 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

farms,  other  country  folk  were  coming  from  their 
homes  and  their  labors  to  worship  the  God  of  seed 
time  and  harvest. 

There  were  no  ushers  in  that  church  of  the  Yester 
days  for  there  would  be  no  strangers  save  those  who 
would  come  with  their  friends ;  but  the  preacher  him 
self  was  at  the  door  to  greet  his  people  or  was  moving 
here  and  there  among  them,  asking  with  care  for  the 
absent  ones.  Neither  was  there  a  great  organ  to  fill 
the  air  with  its  trembling  tones;  but,  at  the  humble 
instrument  that  served  as  well,  the  mother  of  the  little 
girl  presided,  while  the  boy's  father  led  the  country 
choir.  And  the  sunlight  of  that  Sunday  streamed 
through  the  open  windows,  softened  only  by  the 
delicate  traceries  of  gently  waving  branches  and 
softly  rustling  leaves. 

And  in  the  songs  and  prayers  and  sermons  of  that 
worship  in  the  Yesterdays,  the  boy  heard  the  same 
unknowable  things  that  the  man  had  heard  that 
morning  in  the  city  church.  Among  those  people,  the 
boy  felt  stirring  the  same  spirit  that  had  moved  the 
man.  The  old  preacher  was  long  ago  resting  in  the 
cemetery  on  the  hill,  with  the  boy's  parents,  the 
mother  of  the  little  girl,  and  many,  many,  others 
of  his  flock.  A  new  and  more  modern  minister 
would  be  giving,  now,  to  the  children  of  that  old 

154 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

congregation,  the  newest  and  most  modern  things 
that  theologians  do  not  know  about  Religion. 
But  the  same  old  spirit  would  be  there  still;  doing 
the  same  work  for  the  glory  of  the  race.  And  the 
boy  in  the  Yesterdays,  as  he  listened  to  the  songs 
and  prayers  and  sermons,  had  wondered  in  his  heart 
about  the  things  he  heard — even  as  the  man,  he  had 
asked  himself  many  unanswerable  questions.  But 
there  had  been  no  doubt  in  the  questions  of  the  boy. 
There  had  been  no  disbelief  in  his  wonder.  Because 
the  girl's  mother  played  the  organ — because  the  boy's 
father  sang  in  the  choir — because  his  mother  and  the 
little  girl  were  there  beside  him — the  boy  believed 
that  which  he  could  not  understand. 

'•'By  their  fruits" — it  is  a  text  as  good  for  grown  up 
children  as  for  boys  and  girls. 

What  the  preachers  say  about  Religion  matters 
little  after  all.  It  is  the  fathers  and  mothers  and  the 
little  girls  who  keep  the  faith  of  the  world  alive.  The 
words  of  those  sermons  and  prayers  and  songs  in  his 
Yesterdays  would  go  with  the  boy  no  farther  than 
the  church  door ;  but  that  which  was  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  sang  and  preached  and  prayed — that  which 
song  and  sermon  and  prayer  attempted  but  could 
not  express — that  would  go  with  the  boy  through  all 
the  years  of  his  life.  From  that  the  man  could 

155 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

never  get  wholly  away.  It  became  as  much  a  part 
of  him  as  his  love  for  his  parents  was  a  part. 

When  church  and  Sunday  school  were  over  the 
boy  went  home  to  the  miracle  of  the  Sunday  dinner. 
And,  even  as  the  unknowable  things  upon  the  Sunday 
dinner  table  contributed  to  his  manhood's  physical 
strength  and  health,  so  the  things  expressed  by  the 
day  that  is  set  apart  from  all  other  days  contributed 
to  that  strength  of  manhood  that  is  more  vital  than 
the  strength  of  bone  and  muscle  and  nerve  and 
sinew.  In  the  book  wherein  it  is  written:  "Man 
shall  not  live  by  bread  alone,"  it  is  written,  also: 
"Except  ye  become  as  little  children." 

Slowly  the  man  arose.  Slowly  and  regretfully 
he  turned  to  leave  his  place  under  the  great  trees 
that,  in  the  solemn,  quiet,  twilight  of  the  old  ceme 
tery,  locked  their  arms  protectingly  above  the  dead. 

"Except  ye  become  as  little  children." 

Must  men  in  Religion  be  always  trying  to  grow 
up  ?  Are  the  wisest  and  the  greatest  among  scholars 
nearer  the  secrets  of  the  unknowable  power,  that, 
through  Religion,  possesses  the  world,  than  the  un 
thinking  children  are  ?  As  the  man  in  the  late  after 
noon  went  out  through  the  ancient  iron  gates,  between 
the  vine  covered  columns  of  stone,  he  knew  that  his 
belief  in  Religion  would  not  go  as  his  faith  in  fairies 

156 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

had  gone.  Because  of  those  companion  graves  and 
all  that  they  meant  to  him — because  of  the  little  girl 
in  his  Yesterdays — his  faith  in  Religion  would 
not  go. 


The  woman,  alone  in  her  room,  sat  at  the  open 
window  looking  out  over  the  city.  The  long,  spring, 
Sunday  was  drawing  to  its  close.  Above  the  roofs 
of  the  houses  across  the  street,  above  the  towering 
stories  of  the  buildings  in  the  down  town  districts, 
above  factory  chimneys,  church  steeples,  temple 
dome,  and  cathedral  spire,  she  saw  the  evening  sky 
light  with  the  glory  of  the  passing  day.  Over  a 
triumphant  arch  in  the  west,  through  which  the  sun 
had  gone,  a  mighty  cloud  curtain  of  purple  was 
draped,  fold  on  fold,  all  laced  and  looped  with  silver 
and  edged  with  scarlet  flame.  Above  the  curtain, 
far  flung  across  the  wide  sky,  banners  of  rose  and 
crimson  and  gold  flashed  and  gleamed ;  while,  march 
ing  in  serried  ranks,  following  the  pathway  of  the 
sun,  went  innumerable  thousands  of  cloud  soldiers 
in  their  uniforms  of  light.  Slowly  the  procession 
passed — the  gleaming  banners  vanished — the  march 
ing  armies  disappeared — the  curtain  in  the  west  was 
drawn  close.  The  woman  at  the  window  watched 

157 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

until  the  last  of  the  light  was  gone  and,  in  the  still 
sky  above,  the  stars  hung  motionless.  Like  a  bene 
diction,  the  sweet  mystery  of  twilight  had  come  upon 
the  land.  Like  a  softly  breathed  blessing  from 
heaven,  the  night  had  come. 

Because  of  the  experience  through  which  she  had 
passed  in  the  week  just  gone,  that  day,  dedicated  to 
Religion,  had  held  for  the  woman  a  new  meaning. 

Looking  into  the  darkness  that  hid  the  city  from 
her  eyes  she  shuddered.  There  were  so  many  there  to 
whom  the  night  came  not  as  a  blessing,  but  as  a 
curse.  Out  there,  in  the  soft  darkness  into  which  the 
woman  looked,  dreadful  crimes  were  being  com 
mitted,  horrid  deeds  were  being  planned.  Out  there, 
in  the  quiet  night,  wretched  poverty,  gaunt  pain,  and 
loathsome  disease  were  pulling  down  their  victims. 
Out  there,  in  the  blackness,  hideous  licentiousness, 
beastly  passion,  debasing  pleasure  were  stalking  their 
prey.  Out  there,  murderers  of  souls  were  lying  in 
wait ;  robbers  of  hearts  were  creeping  stealthily ;  slay 
ers  of  purity  were  watching;  killers  of  innocence 
were  lurking.  To  the  woman  at  the  window,  that 
night,  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  city  were  as  beacon 
fires  on  the  outskirts  of  hell. 

And  to-morrow — to-morrow — she  must  go  down 
into  that  hell.  All  that  was  there  in  the  darkness, 

158 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

she  must  see,  she  must  know,  she  must  feel.  All 
those  things  of  evil  would  be  watching  her,  crowding 
her,  touching  her,  hungering  for  her ;  placing  pitfalls 
in  her  way ;  longing  for  her  to  slip ;  waiting  for  her 
to  fall;  testing  her,  trying  her,  always  ready  with  a 
damnable  readiness;  always  hoping  with  a  hellish 
hope.  Into  that  she  must  go — even  into  that — this 
woman,  who  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman,  must  go. 

And  what — what — of  her  dreams  ?  Could  she,  she 
asked  herself  that  night,  could  she  go  into  that  life, 
day  after  day,  and  still  have  a  heart  left  for  dream 
ing?  Against  the  unclean  strength  that  threatened 
her,  where  would  she  find  the  strength  to  keep  her 
womanhood  pure  and  strong  for  the  holy  mission  of 
womanhood  ? 

Clear  and  sweet  from  out  the  darkness  of  the  night 
came  the  sound  of  a  bell.  Then  another,  and  an 
other,  and  another,  until,  from  every  quarter  of  the 
city,  their  music  came,  as  though  in  answer  to  her 
question.  Some,  near  at  hand,  rang  loud,  triumph 
ant,  peals  as  though  rejoicing  over  victories  already 
won;  others,  farther  away,  in  softer  tones,  seemed 
to  promise  strength  for  present  need;  while  still 
others,  in  more  distant  places,  sounding  soft  and  far 
away,  seemed  to  gently  warn,  to  beckon,  to  call,  to 
plead.  Lifting  her  tear  filled  eyes  from  the  lights 

159 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

of  the  streets  the  woman  looked  at  the  stars,  and,  so 
looking,  saw,  lifting  into  the  sky,  the  church  spires 
of  the  city. 

In  a  little,  the  music  of  the  bells  ceased.  But  the 
woman,  at  the  window,  sat  still  with  her  face  up 
turned  to  the  stars. 

Gone,  now,  were  the  city  lights  that  to  her  had 
seemed  as  beacon  fires  on  the  outskirts  of  hell.  Gone, 
now,  the  horrors  of  that  life  to  which  night  comes 
not  as  a  benediction.  Gone,  now,  her  fears  for  her 
dreams.  The  woman  lived  again  a  Sunday  evening 
in  her  Yesterdays. 

It  may  have  been  the  naming  glory  of  the  sky; 
it  may  have  been  the  music  of  the  bells ;  it  may  have 
been  the  stars — whatever  it  was — the  woman  went 
again  into  the  long  ago.  Once  again  she  went  back 
into  her  Yesterdays — to  a  Sunday  evening  in  her 
Yesterdays. 

The  little  girl  was  on  the  front  porch  of  her  home 
with  mother.  The  sun  was  going  down  behind  the 
great  trees  in  the  old  churchyard  at  the  cross  roads 
while,  across  the  valley,  the  voice  of  the  bell  was 
calling  the  people  to  evening  worship.  And,  with 
the  ringing  of  the  bell,  the  boy  and  his  mother  came 
to  sit  with  them  while  the  men  were  gone  to  church. 

Then,  while  the  mothers,  seated  in  their  easy 
160 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

chairs,  talked  in  low  tones,  the  boy  and  the  girl, 
side  by  side,  on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  watched  the 
light  go  out  of  the  sky  and  tried  to  count  the  stars 
as  they  came.  As  the  twilight  deepened,  the  elms 
in  the  pasture  across  the  road,  the  maples  along  the 
drive,  and  the  willows  down  by  the  creek,  became 
shadowy  and  indistinct.  From  the  orchard,  an  owl 
sent  forth  his  quavering  call  and  was  answered  by  his 
mate  from  the  roof  of  the  barn.  Down  in  the  shadow 
of  the  little  valley,  a  whip-poor-will  cried  plaintively, 
and,  now  and  then,  a  bat  came  darting  out  of  the 
dusk  on  swift  and  silent  wings.  And  there,  in  the 
darkness  across  the  valley,  shone  the  single  light  of 
the  church.  The  children  gave  up  trying  to  count 
the  stars  and  grew  very  still,  as,  together,  they 
watched  the  lights  of  the  church.  Then  one  of  the 
mothers  laughed,  a  low  happy  laugh,  and  the  children 
began  telling  each  other  about  God. 

Many  things  the  boy  and  the  girl  told  each  other 
about  God.  And  who  is  there  to  say  that  the  things 
they  told  were  not  just  as  true  as  many  things  that 
older  children  tell  ?  Though,  I  suppose,  as  the  boy 
and  girl  did  not  quarrel  or  become  angry  with  each 
other  that  Sunday  evening,  their  talk  about  God 
could  scarcely  be  considered  orthodox.  Their  service 
under  the  stars  was  not  at  all  regular,  I  know.  With 

161 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

childish  awe  and  reverence — with  hushed  voices — 
they  only  told  each  other  about  God.  They  did  not 
discuss  theology — they  were  not  church  members — 
they  were  only  children. 

Then,  by  and  by,  the  father  and  uncle  came,  and, 
with  his  parents,  the  boy  went  home,  calling  through 
the  dark,  as  he  went,  many  good  nights — each  call 
sounding  fainter  and  farther  away.  And,  when  she 
could  neither  hear  nor  make  him  hear  more,  the 
little  girl  went  with  her  mother  into  the  house,  where, 
when  she  was  ready  for  bed,  she  knelt  to  pray  that  old 
familiar  prayer  of  the  Yesterdays — forgetting  not 
in  her  prayer  to  ask  God  to  bless  and  keep  the  boy. 

Oh,  childish  prayers  of  the  Yesterdays !  Made  in 
the  strength  of  a  childish  faith,  what  power  divine 
is  in  them  to  keep  the  race  from  death !  Oh,  childish 
understanding  of  God,  deep  grounded  in  that  wis 
dom  to  which  scholars  can  never  attain!  Does  the 
Master  of  Life  still  set  little  children  among  His 
disciples  in  vain  ? 

The  woman  no  longer  feared  that  which  lay  in  the 
darkness  of  the  city.  She  knew,  now,  that  she  would 
have  strength  to  keep  the  treasures  of  her  womanhood 
safe  for  him  should  he  come  to  lead  her  into  the 
life  of  her  dreams.  She  knew,  now,  what  it  was  that 


162 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

would  help  her — that  would  enable  her  to  keep  that 
which  Life  had  committed  to  her. 

As  she  turned  from  the  window,  strength  and  peace 
were  in  her  heart.  As  she  knelt  heside  her  hed  to 
pray,  her  prayer  was  that  prayer  of  her  Yesterdays. 
The  prayer  of  a  child  it  was — the  prayer  of  a  woman 
who  knows  that  she  is  a  woman  it  was  also. 


Iftf 


TRADITION 

T  was  summer  time — growing  time. 

The  children  of  the  little  brown  birds 
that  had  nested  in  the  hedge  near  the 
cherry  tree,  that  year,  were  flying  now, 
quite  easily,  away  from  their  little  brown  mother's 
counsel  and  advice.  Even  to  the  top  of  the  orchard 
hill,  they  went  in  search  of  brave  adventure,  rejoicing 
recklessly  in  their  freedom.  But,  for  the  parent 
birds,  the  ties  of  the  home  in  the  hedge  were  still 
strong.  And,  every  day,  they  examined  with  experi 
enced  eyes  the  cherries,  that,  on  the  near  by  tree, 
were  fast  nearing  ripening  time. 

With  every  gesture  expressing  more  clearly  than 
any  spoken  word  his  state  of  mind,  the  man  jerked 
down  the  top  of  his  desk,  slammed  the  door,  jabbed 
the  elevator  bell,  and  strode  grimly  out  of  the  build 
ing. 

The  man's  anger  was  not  one  of  those  flash  like 
bursts  of  wrath,  that,  passing  as  quickly  as  they  come, 
leave  the  sky  as  clear  as  though  no  storm  had  crossed 
it.  Nor  was  it  the  slow  kindling,  determined,  anger, 

164 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

that,  directed  against  a  definite  object,  burns  with 
steady  purpose.  It  was  rather  that  sullen,  hopeless, 
helpless  rage,  that,  finding  nothing  to  vent  itself 
upon,  endures  even  while  recognizing  that  its  endur 
ance  is  in  vain.  It  was  the  anger  of  a  captive, 
wild  thing  against  the  steel  bars  of  its  cage,  which, 
after  months  of  effort,  it  has  found  too  strong. 
It  was  the  anger  of  an  explorer  against  the  impass 
able  crags  and  cliffs  of  a  mountain  range  that  bars 
his  path.  It  was  the  anger  of  a  blind  man  against 
the  darkness  that  will  not  lift. 

The  man's  work  demanded  freedom  and  the  man 
was  not  free.  In  his  dreams,  at  the  beginning  of  his 
manhood,  he  had  thought  himself  free  to  work  out 
his  dreams.  He  had  said  to  himself:  "Alone,  in 
my  own  strength,  I  will  work.  Depending  upon  no 
man,  I  will  be  independent.  Limited  only  by  myself, 
I  will  be  free."  He  said  this  because  he  did  not, 
then,  know  the  strength  of  the  bars.  He  had  not,  at 
that  time,  seen  the  mountain  range.  He  had  not 
faced  the  darkness  that  would  not  lift.  Difficulties, 
hardships,  obstacles,  dangers,  he  had  expected  to 
face,  and,  in  his  strength,  to  overcome.  But  the 
greatest  difficulty,  the  severest  hardship,  the  most 
trying  obstacle,  the  gravest  danger,  he  had  not  fore 
seen. 

165 


THEIR  YESTEEDAYS 

Little  by  little,  as  the  days  and  months  had  passed 
and  the  man  had  made  progress  in  his  work,  this 
thing  had  made  itself  felt.  Little  by  little,  this 
thing  had  forced  itself  upon  him  until,  at  last,  he 
was  made  to  realize  the  fact  that  he  was  not  inde 
pendent  of  but  dependent  upon  all  men.  He  found 
that  he  was  limited  not  alone  by  himself  but  by 
others.  He  understood,  now,  that  he  was  not  free 
to  work  out  his  dreams.  He  saw,  now,  that  the 
thing  most  difficult  to  overcome — the  thing  that  for 
bade  his  progress  and  refused  him  freedom — was 
Tradition.  On  every  side  he  met  this:  "It  has 
never  been  done ;  it,  therefore,  can  never  be  done. 
The  fathers  of  our  fathers  believed  this,  therefore 
we  must  believe  it.  This  has  always  been,  there 
fore  this  must  always  be.  Others  do  this,  think  this, 
believe  this,  therefore  you  must  so  do  and  think  and 
believe."  The  man  found,  that,  beyond  a  point 
which  others  could  see,  others  denied  him  the  right 
to  go.  The  established  customs  and  habits  of  others 
fixed  the  limit  of  the  progress  he  could  make  with  the 
approval  of  the  world. 

At  first  he  had  laughed — secure  in  his  own 
strength,  he  had  laughed  contemptuously.  But  that 
was  because  he  did  not  then  realize  the  power  of  this 
thing.  Later  he  did  not  laugh.  He  became  angry 

16G 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

with  a  sullen,  hopeless,  helpless,  rage  that  accom 
plished  nothing — that  could  accomplish  nothing — 
but  only  weakened  the  man  himself.  As  one  shut 
in  a  cell  exhausts  himself  beating  against  the  walls, 
so  he  wearied  himself. 

Not  until  he  was  in  the  full  swing  of  his  work  had 
this  thing  come  upon  him  in  force.  At  the  beginning 
of  his  manhood  life,  when,  in  the  strength  of  his  first 
manhood  dreams  he  had  looked  out  upon  the  world 
as  a  conquering  emperor  upon  the  field  of  a  coming 
battle,  he  had  not  seen  this  thing.  When  he  was 
crying  out  to  the  world  for  something  to  do  this  thing 
had  not  made  itself  felt.  Not  until  he  had  made 
noticeable  progress — not  until  he  was  in  the  full 
swing  of  his  work — did  he  find  himself  forced  to 
reckon  with  what  others  had  done  or  said  or  thought 
or  believed. 

And  never  had  the  man  felt  his  own  strength  as  he 
felt  it  now  when  face  to  face  with  this  thing  against 
which  his  strength  seemed  so  helpless.  If  only  he 
could  have  freedom  !  He  asked  nothing  but  that.  As 
in  the  beginning  he  had  asked  of  the  world  only  room 
and  something  to  do,  he  asked  now  only  for  freedom 
to  do.  And  the  world  granted  him  the  freedom  of 
the  child  who  is  permitted  to  play  in  the  yard  but 
must  not  go  outside  the  fence.  He  was  free  to  do  his 

167 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

work — to  play  out  his  dreams — only  so  far  as  the 
established  customs  and  fixed  habits — Tradition — 
willed.  "Beyond  the  fence  that  shuts  in  the  familiar 
home  ground,"  said  the  world,  "you  must  not  go. 
If  you  dare  climb  over  the  fence — if  you  dare  go  out 
of  the  yard,"  said  the  world,  "I  will  punish  you — I 
will  ridicule  you,  condemn  you,  persecute  you,  ostra 
cize  you.  I  will  brand  you  false,  a  self-seeker,  a  pre 
tender,  a  charlatan,  a  trickster,  a  rogue.  I  will  cry 
you  unsafe,  dangerous,  a  menace  to  society  and  the 
race,  an  evil  to  all  that  is  good,  an  unspeakable  fool. 
Stay  in  the  yard,"  said  the  world,  "and  you  may  do 
what  you  like." 

Even  in  matters  of  personal  habits  and  taste,  the 
man  found  that  he  was  not  free.  In  his  dress ;  in  the 
things  he  ate  and  drank;  in  his  pleasures;  in  the 
books  he  read,  the  plays  he  attended,  the  pictures  he 
saw,  the  music  he  heard,  he  found  that  he  was  ex 
pected  to  obey  the  mandates  of  the  world — he  found 
that  he  was  expected  to  conform  to  Tradition — to  the 
established  customs  and  habits  of  others.  In  religion, 
in  politics,  in  society,  in  literature,  in  art — as  in  his 
work — the  world  said :  "Don't  go  outside  the  yard." 

I  do  not  know  what  work  it  was  that  the  man  was 
trying  to  do.  It  does  not  matter  what  his  work  was. 
But  this  I  know :  in  every  work  that  man,  since  the 

168 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

beginning,  has  tried  to  do,  man  has  been  hindered  as 
this  man  was  hindered — man  has  been  denied  as  this 
man  was  denied,  freedom.  Tradition  has  always 
blocked  the  wheels  of  progress.  The  world  has  moved 
ahead  always  in  spite  of  the  world.  Just  as  the 
world  has  always  crucified  its  saviors,  so,  always,  it 
has  hindered  and  held  back  its  leaders. 

And  this,  too,  I  know:  after  the  savior  is  cruci 
fied,  those  who  nail  him  to  the  cross  accept  his  teach 
ing.  While  the  world  hinders  and  holds  back  its 
leaders,  it  always  follows  them. 

But  the  man  did  not  think  of  this  that  day  when 
he  left  the  scene  of  his  labor  in  such  anger.  He 
thought  only  of  that  which  he  was  trying  to  do. 
When  he  went  back  to  his  work,  the  next  day,  he  was 
still  angry  and  with  his  anger,  now,  came  discontent, 
doubt,  and  fear,  to  cloud  his  vision,  to  clog  his  brain 
and  weaken  his  heart. 

A  friend,  at  lunch,  said:  "You  look  fagged, 
knocked  out,  done  up,  old  man.  YouVe  been  pegging 
away  too  long  and  too  steadily.  Why  don't  you  let 
up  for  awhile  ?  Lay  off  for  a  week  or  two.  Take  a 
vacation." 

Again  and  again,  that  hot,  weary,  afternoon,  the 
words  of  the  man's  friend  came  back  to  him  until, 
by  evening,  he  was  considering  the  suggestion  seri- 

169 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

ously.  "Why  not  ?"  he  asked  himself.  He  was 
accomplishing  little  or  nothing  in  his  present  mood. 
Why  not  accept  the  friendly  advice?  Perhaps — 
when  he  came  back — perhaps,  he  could  again  laugh 
at  the  world  that  denied  him  freedom. 

So  he  came  to  considering  places  and  plans.  And, 
as  he  considered,  there  was  before  him,  growing 
always  clearer  as  he  looked,  the  scenes  of  his  boy 
hood — the  old  home  of  his  childhood — the  place  of 
his  Yesterdays.  There  were  many  places  of  interest 
and  pleasure  to  which  the  man  might  go,  but,  among 
them  all,  there  was  no  place  so  attractive  as  the  place 
of  his  Yesterdays.  There  was  nothing  he  so  wished 
to  do  as  this:  to  go  back  to  the  old  home  and  there 
to  be,  for  a  little  while,  as  nearly  as  a  man  could  be, 
a  boy  again. 

If  the  man  had  thought  about  it,  he  would  have 
seen  in  this  desire  to  spend  his  vacation  at  the  old 
home  something  of  the  same  force  that  so  angered 
him  by  hindering  his  work.  But  the  man  did  not 
think  about  it.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  see  if  he  might 
spend  two  weeks  with  the  people  who  were  living 
in  the  house  where  he  was  born  and,  when  the  answer 
came  assuring  him  a  welcome,  quickly  made  his 
arrangements  to  go. 

With  boyish  eagerness,  he  was  at  the  depot  a  full 

170 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

half  hour  before  the  time  for  his  train.  While  he 
waited,  he  watched  the  crowd,  feeling  an  interest 
in  the  people  who  came  and  went  in  the  never  ending 
procession  that  he  had  not  felt  since  that  day  when 
he  had  first  come  to  the  city  to  work  out  his  dreams 
among  men.  In  the  human  tide  that  ebbed  and 
flowed  through  this  world  gateway,  he  saw  men  of 
wealth  and  men  of  poverty — people  of  culture  and 
position  who  had  come  or  were  going  in  Pullman  or 
private  cars  and  illiterate,  stupid,  animal  looking, 
emigrants  who  were  crowded,  much  like  cattle,  in  the 
lowest  class.  There  were  business  men  of  large 
affairs;  countrymen  with  wondering  faces;  shallow, 
pleasure  seekers;  artists  and  scholars;  idle  fools; 
vicious  sharks  watching  for  victims ;  mothers  with 
flocks  of  children  clinging  to  their  skirts;  working- 
girls  and  business  women;  chattering,  laughing, 
schoolgirls;  and  wretched  creatures  of  the  outcast 
life — all  these  and  many  more. 

And,  as  he  watched,  perhaps  because  he  was  on  his 
vacation,  perhaps  because  of  something  in  his  heart 
awakened  by  the  fact  that  he  was  going  to  his  boy 
hood  home,  the  man  felt,  as  he  had  never  felt  before, 
his  kinship  with  them  all.  With  wealth  and  poverty, 
with  culture  and  illiteracy,  with  pleasure  and  crime, 
with  sadness  and  joy,  as  evidenced  in  the  lives  of 

171 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

those  who  passed  in  the  crowd,  the  man  felt  a  sym 
pathy  and  understanding  that  was  strangely  new. 
And,  more  than  this,  he  saw  that  each  was  kin  to  the 
other.  He  saw  that,  in  spite  of  the  wide  gulf  that 
separated  the  individuals  in  the  throng,  there  was  a 
something  that  held  them  all  together — there  was  a 
force  that  influenced  all  alike — there  was  a  some 
thing  common  to  all.  In  spite  of  the  warring  ele 
ments  of  society;  in  spite  of  the  clashing  forces  of 
business ;  in  spite  of  the  conflicting  claims  of  industry 
represented  in  the  throng;  the  man  recognized  a 
brotherhood,  a  oneness,  a  kinship,  that  held  all  to 
gether.  And  he  felt  this  with  a  strange  feeling  that 
he  had  always  known  that  it  was  there  but  had  never 
recognized  it  before. 

The  man  did  not  realize  that  this  was  so  because  he 
was  not  thinking  of  the  people  in  their  relation  to 
his  work.  He  did  not  know,  that,  because  his  heart 
and  mind  were  intent  upon  the  things  of  his  Yester 
days,  he  saw  the  world  in  this  new  light.  He  did 
not,  then,  understand  that  the  force  which  hindered 
and  hampered  him  in  his  work — that  denied  him  the 
full  freedom  he  demanded — was  the  same  force  that 
he  now  felt  holding  the  people  together.  Even  as 
they  all,  whether  traveling  in  Pullman,  private  car, 
or  emigrant  train,  passed  over  the  same  rails,  so  they 

172 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

all,  in  whatever  class  they  traveled  on  the  road  of 
Life,  were  guided  by  the  Traditions — the  established 
customs — the  fixed  habits — that  are  common  to  their 
race  or  nation.  And  the  strength  of  a  people,  as  a 
people,  is  in  this  oneness — this  force  that  makes  them 
one — the  Traditions  and  customs  and  habits  of  life 
that  are  common  to  all.  It  is  the  fences  of  the  family 
dooryards  that  hold  the  children  of  men  together  and 
make  the  people  of  a  race  or  nation  one. 

So  it  was  that  the  man,  knowing  it  not,  left  his 
work  behind  and  went,  for  strength  and  rest,  back  to 
the  scenes  of  his  Yesterdays  in  obedience  to  the  com 
mand  of  the  very  thing  that,  in  his  work,  had  stirred 
him  to  such  rage.  For  what,  after  all,  are  Traditions 
and  customs  and  habits  but  a  going  back  into  the 
Yesterdays. 

As  the  train  left  the  city  farther  and  farther 
behind,  the  man's  thoughts  kept  pace  with  the  fast 
flying  wheels  that  were  bearing  him  back  to  the 
scenes  of  his  childhood.  From  the  present,  he  re 
traced  his  steps  to  that  day  when  he  had  dreamed 
his  first  manhood  dreams  and  to  those  hard  days 
when  he  was  asking  of  the  world  only  something  to 
do.  As,  step  by  step,  he  followed  his  way  back, 
incidents,  events,  experiences,  people,  appeared,  even 
as  from  the  car  window  he  caught  glimpses  of  the 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

whirling  landscape,  until  at  last  he  saw,  across  the 
fields  and  meadows  familiar  to  his  childhood,  the 
buildings  of  the  old  home,  the  house  where  the  little 
girl  had  lived,  the  old  church,  and  the  orchard  hill 
where  he  had  sat  that  day  when  the  smoke  of  a  distant 
train  moving  toward  the  city  hecame  to  him  a  banner 
leading  to  the  battle  front.  Then  the  long  whistle 
announced  the  station.  Eagerly  the  man  collected 
his  things  and,  before  the  train  had  come  to  a  full 
stop,  swung  himself  to  the  depot  platform  where  he 
was  met  by  his  kindly  host. 

As  they  drove  past  the  fields  and  pastures,  so 
quiet  after  the  noisy  city,  the  man  grew  very  still. 
Past  the  little  white  church  among  its  old  trees  at 
the  cross  roads;  down  the  hill  and  across  the  creek; 
and  slowly  up  the  other  side  of  the  valley  they  went : 
then  past  the  house  where  the  little  girl  had  lived ; 
and  so  turned  in,  at  last,  to  the  home  of  that  boy 
in  the  Yesterdays.  And  surely  it  was  no  discredit 
to  the  man  that,  when  they  left  him  alone  in  his  old 
room  to  prepare  for  the  evening  meal,  he  scarce  could 
see  for  tears. 

Scenes  of  childhood  !  Memories  of  the  old  home ! 
Recollections  of  the  dear  ones  that  are  gone!  No 
more  can  man  escape  these  things  of  the  Yesterdays 
than  he  can  avoid  the  things  of  to-day.  No  more  can 

174 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

man  deny  the  past  than  he  can  deny  the  present 
Tradition  is  to  men  as  a  governor  to  an  engine ;  with 
out  its  controlling  power  the  race  would  speed  quickly 
to  its  own  destruction.  One  of  the  Thirteen  Truly 
Great  Things  of  Life  is  Tradition. 

For  two  happy,  healthful,  restful,  strengthening, 
inspiring  weeks,  the  man  lived,  so  far  as  a  man  can 
live,  in  his  Yesterdays.  In  the  cool  shade  of  the 
orchard  that  once  was  an  enchanted  wood ;  under  the 
old  apple  tree  ship  beside  the  meadow  sea;  on  the 
hill  where,  astride  his  rail  fence  war  horse,  the  boy 
had  directed  the  battle  and  led  the  desperate  charge 
and  where  the  man  had  dreamed  the  first  of  his 
manhood  dreams;  in  the  garden  where  the  castaway 
had  lived  on  his  desert  island;  in  the  yard  near 
mother's  window  where  the  boy  had  builded  the 
brave  play  house  for  the  little  girl  next  door ;  in  the 
valley,  below  where  the  little  girl  lived,  beside  the 
brook  that  in  its  young  life  ran  so  pure  and  clear; 
at  the  old  school  house  in  the  edge  of  the  timber ;  in 
the  ancient  cemetery,  beside  the  companion  graves; 
through  the  woods  and  fields  and  pastures ;  beside  the 
old  mill  pond  with  its  covered  bridge ;  the  man  lived 
again  those  days  of  the  long  ago. 

But,  in  the  places  of  his  Yesterdays,  the  man  found, 
already,  many  changes.  The  houses  and  buildings 

175 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

were  a  little  more  weather-beaten,  with  many  of  the 
boards  in  the  porch  floors  and  steps  showing  decay. 
The  trees  in  the  orchard  were  older  and  more  gnarled 
with  here  and  there  gaps  in  their  ranks.  The  fences 
showed  many  repairs.  The  little  schoolhouse  was 
almost  shabby  and,  with  the  wood  cleared  away, 
looked  naked  and  alone.  The  church,  too,  was  in 
need  of  a  fresh  coat  of  white.  And  there  were  many 
new  graves  in  the  cemetery  on  the  hill.  As  time  had 
wrought  changes  in  the  man  himself,  even  so  had 
it  altered  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  Always,  in  men 
and  in  things,  time  works  changes. 

But  it  is  not  the  changes  wrought  by  time  that 
harms.  These  come  as  the  ripening  of  the  fruit  upon 
the  tree.  It  is  the  sudden,  violent,  transformations 
that  men  are  ever  seeking  to  make,  both  in  things 
and  in  themselves,  that  menace  the  ripening  life  of 
the  race.  It  is  well,  indeed,  for  the  world  to  hold 
fast  to  its  Traditions.  It  is  well  to  cling  wisely  to  the 
past. 

NOT  did  the  man  live  again  in  his  Yesterdays  alone. 
He  could  not.  Always,  she  was  there — his  boyhood 
mate — the  little  girl  who  lived  next  door. 

But  the  opening  in  the  hedge  that,  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  garden,  separated  the  boy's  home  from  the 
home  of  the  little  girl,  was  closed.  Long  and  care- 

176 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

fully  the  man  searched;  smiling,  the  while,  at  a 
foolish  wish  in  his  heart  that  time  would  leave  that 
little  gate  of  the  Yesterdays  always  open.  But  the 
ever  growing  branches  had  woven  a  thick  barrier 
across  the  green  archway  hiding  it  so  securely  that, 
to  the  man,  no  sign  was  left  to  mark  where  it  had 
been. 

With  that  foolish  regret  still  in  his  heart,  the  man 
asked,  quite  casually,  of  the  people  who  were  living 
in  the  house  if  they  knew  aught  about  his  playmate 
of  the  Yesterdays. 

They  could  tell  him  very  little;  only  that  she 
lived  in  a  city  some  distance  from  his  present  home. 
What  she  was  doing ;  whether  married  or  alone ;  they 
could  not  say. 

And  the  man,  as  he  stood,  with  bared  head,  under 
the  cherry  tree  in  the  corner  near  the  hedge,  told 
himself  that  he  was  glad  that  the  people  could  tell 
him  nothing.  In  his  busy,  grown  up,  life  there  was 
no  room  for  a  woman.  In  his  battle  with  the  things 
that  challenged  his  advance,  he  must  be  free  to  fight. 
It  was  better  for  him  that  the  little  girl  lived  only 
in  his  Yesterdays.  The  little  girl  who  had  helped 
him  play  out  his  boyhood  dreams  must  not  hinder 
him  while  he  worked  out  the  dreams  of  his  manhood. 
That  is  what  the  man  told  himself  as  he  stood,  with 

177 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

bared  head,  tinder  the  cherry  tree.  With  the  memory 
of  that  play  wedding  and  that  kiss  in  his  heart,  he 
told  himself  that! 

I  wonder,  sometimes,  what  would  happen  if  men 
should  chance  to  discover  how  foolish  they  really  are. 

No  doubt,  the  man  reflected — watching  the  pair  of 
brown  birds  as  they  inspected  the  ripening  cherries — 
no  doubt  she  has  long  ago  forgotten  those  childish 
vows.  Perhaps,  in  the  grown  up  world,  she  has  even 
taken  new  and  more  binding  vows.  Would  he  ever, 
he  wondered,  meet  one  with  whom  he  could  make 
those  vows  again  ?  Once  he  had  met  one  with  whom 
he  thought  he  wished  to  make  them  but  he  knew, 
now,  that  he  had  been  mistaken.  And  he  knew,  too, 
that  it  was  well  that  he  had  found  his  mistake  in 
time.  Somehow,  as  he  stood  there  again  under  the 
cherry  tree,  the  making  of  such  vows  seemed  to  the 
man  more  holy,  more  sacred,  than  they  had  ever 

seemed  before.  Would  he  dare He  wondered. 

Was  there,  in  all  the  world,  a  woman  with  whom  he 

could The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 

turned  away.  Yes,  indeed,  it  was  much  better  that 
she  lived  only  in  his  Yesterdays.  And  still — still — in 
the  man's  heart  there  was  regret  that  Time  had 
closed  that  gateway  of  his  Yesterdays. 

And  often,  in  the  twilight  of  those  evenings,  after 
178 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

a  day  of  wandering  about  the  place,  visiting  old 
scenes,  or  talking  with  the  long  time  friends  of  his 
people,  the  man  would  recall  the  traditions  of  his 
family;  hearing  again  the  tales  his  father  would  tell 
by  the  winter  fireside  or  listening  to  the  stories  that 
his  mother  would  relate  on  a  Sunday  or  a  stormy 
afternoon.  Brave  tales  they  were — brave  tales  and 
true  stories  of  the  man's  forbears  who  had  lived  when 
the  country  was  young  and  who  had  played  no  small 
part  in  the  nation's  building.  And,  as  he  recalled 
these  traditions  of  his  people,  the  man's  heart  thrilled 
with  loyal  pride  while  he  determined  strongly  to 
keep  the  splendid  record  clean.  As  a  sacred  heritage, 
he  would  receive  these  traditions.  As  a  holy  duty  he 
would  be  true  to  that  which  had  been. 

Reluctantly,  but  with  renewed  strength  and  cour 
age,  when  the  time  came  for  his  going,  the  man  set 
his  face  away  from  his  Yesterdays — set  it  again 
toward  his  work — toward  the  working  out  of  his 
dreams.  And,  as  he  went,  there  was  for  the  thing 
that  checked  his  progress  something  more  than  anger 
— for  the  thing  that  forced  him  to  go  slowly  there 
was  patience. 

Standing  on  the  rear  platform,  as  his  train  moved 
slowly  away  past  an  incoming  train  that  had  just 
pulled  onto  a  siding,  the  man  saw  the  neighbor  who 

179 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

lived  next  door  to  his  old  home  drive  hurriedly  up. 
The  man  in  the  carriage  waved  his  hand  and  the 
man  on  the  moving  train,  answering  in  like  manner, 
wondered  idly  what  had  brought  the  neighbor  there. 
Surely  he  had  not  come  to  bid  one  who  was  almost 
a  stranger  good-bye.  And,  strangely  enough,  as  the 
man  watched  from  the  window  for  a  last  view  of  the 
scenes  of  his  Yesterdays,  there  was  in  his  heart, 
again,  regret  that  the  little  opening  in  the  hedge  was 
closed. 


The  city  was  sweltering  in  a  summer  heat  wave. 
The  sun  shone  through  a  dingy  pall  of  vile  smoke 
with  a  sickly,  yellow,  glare.  From  the  pavement  and 
gutter,  wet  by  the  sprinkling  wagons,  in  a  vain  effort 
to  lay  the  dust,  a  sticky,  stinking,  steam  lifted,  filling 
the  nostrils  and  laving  the  face  with  a  combination 
of  every  filthy  odor.  The  atmosphere  fairly  reeked 
with  the  smell  of  sweating  animals,  perspiring  hu 
manity,  rotting  garbage,  and  vile  sewage.  And,  in 
the  midst  of  the  hot  filth,  the  people  moved  with 
languid,  feeble  manner ;  their  faces  worn  and  pallid ; 
their  eyes  dull  and  weary;  their  voices  thin  and 
fretful. 

The  woman's  heart  was  faint  with  the  weight  of 
180 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

suffering  that  she  was  helpless  to  relieve.  Her  quiv 
ering  nerves  shrieked  with  the  horror  of  conditions 
that  she  could  not  change.  Her  brain  ached  with 
contemplation  of  the  cruel  necessity  that  tortured 
humankind.  Her  very  soul  was  sick  with  the  hope 
lessness  of  the  gasping,  choking,  struggling,  multitude 
who,  in  their  poverty  and  blindness,  toiled  to  preserve 
their  lives  of  sorrow  and  pain  and  sought  relief  from 
their  labors  in  pleasures  more  horrible  and  destruc 
tive,  by  far,  than  the  slavery  to  which  they  gave 
themselves  for  the  means  to  pay. 

The  woman  was  tired — very  tired.  Heart  and 
nerves  and  brain  and  soul  and  body  were  tired  with 
a  weariness  that,  it  seemed  to  her,  would  never  pass. 
She  was  tired  of  the  life  into  which  she  had  gone 
because  it  was  the  custom  of  the  age  and  because  of 
her  necessity — the  life  into  which  she  had  not  wished 
to  go  because  it  denied  her  womanhood.  Because  she 
knew  herself  to  be  a  woman,  she  felt  that  she  was 
being  robbed  of  the  things  of  her  womanhood.  The 
brightness  and  beauty,  the  strength  and  joyousness  of 
her  womanhood  were,  by  her,  held  as  sacred  trusts 
to  be  kept  for  her  children  and,  through  them,  for 
the  race.  She  wearied  of  the  struggle  to  keep  the 
things  of  her  womanhood  from  the  world  that  WPS. 
taking  them  from  her — that  put  a  price  upon  them — 

181 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

that  used  them  as  thoughtlessly  as  it  uses  the  stone 
and  metal  and  wood  that  it  takes  from  the  earth. 
She  was  tired  of  the  horrid  life  that  crowded  her  so 
closely — that  crushed  itself  against  her  in  the 
crowded  cars — that  leered  into  her  face  on  the  street 
— that  reached  out  for  her  from  every  side — that 
hungered  for  her  with  a  fierce  hunger  and  longed 
for  her  with  a  damnable,  fiendish,  longing.  She  was 
faint  and  weak  from  contact  with  the  loathsome 
things  that  she  was  forced  to  know  and  that  would 
leave  their  mark  upon  her  womanhood  as  surely  as 
the  touch  of  pitch  defiles.  And  she  was  weary,  so 
weary,  waiting  for  that  one  with  whom  she  could 
cross  the  threshold  of  the  old,  old,  open  door. 

Little  time  was  left  to  her,  now,  for  thought  and 
preparation  for  the  life  of  which  she  had  dreamed. 
Little  heart  was  left  to  her,  now,  for  dreaming. 
Little  courage  was  left  for  hope.  But  still  her 
dreams  lived.  Still  she  waited.  Still,  at  times,  she 
hoped. 

But  the  thing  that  most  of  all  wearied  the  woman, 
who  knew  that  she  was  a  woman,  was  this :  the  rest 
less,  discontented,  dissatisfied,  uneasy,  spirit  of  the 
age  that,  scorning  Tradition  in  a  shallow,  silly  pride, 
struggles  for  and  seems  to  value  only  that  which  is 


182 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

new  regardless  of  the  value  of  the  thing  itself.  The 
new  in  dress,  regardless  of  beauty  or  fitness  in  the 
costume — the  new  in  thought,  regardless  of  the  sane- 
ness  of  the  thinking — the  new  in  customs  and  manner 
of  living — the  new  in  the  home,  in  marriage  relation, 
in  the  education  and  rearing  of  children — new  phi 
losophy,  new  science,  new  religion,  new  art,  new 
music,  new  books,  new  cooking,  new  women — it 
sometimes  appears  that  the  crime  of  crimes,  the 
most  degrading  disgrace,  these  days,  is  to  be  held 
old-fashioned,  behind-the-times,  out-of-date,  and  that 
everything,  everything,  not  new  is  old-fashioned — 
everything  not  of  the  times  is  behind-the-times — 
everything  not  down-to-date  is  out-of-date. 

Patriotism,  love  of  country,  is  old,  very  old,  and 
is  also — or  therefore — quite  out-of-date.  To  speak  or 
write  of  patriotism,  seriously,  or  to  consider  it  a 
factor  in  life — to  live  it,  depend  upon  it,  or  appeal 
to  it,  is  to  be  considered  very  strange  and  sadly  old- 
fashioned.  The  modern,  down-to-date,  age  considers 
seriously  not  patriotism  but  "graft"  and  "price"  and 
"boodle."  These  are  the  modern  forces  by  which  the 
nation  is  said  to  be  governed ;  these  are  the  means  by 
which  the  nation  strives  to  go  ahead.  To  talk  only 
of  these  things,  to  believe  only  in  these  things,  to  live 


183 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

only  these  things,  is  to  be  modern  and  down — low 
down — to-date.  To  work  from  any  motive  but  the 
making  of  money  is  to  be  queerly  behind-the-times. 
To  write  a  book  or  paint  a  picture  or  sing  a  song,  to 
preach  a  sermon,  to  do  anything  for  any  reason  under 
heaven  but  for  cash  marks  you  a  fanatic  and  a  fool. 
To  believe,  even,  that  anyone  does  anything  save  for 
the  money  there  is  in  it  stamps  you  simple  and  un 
sophisticated,  indeed.  To  profess  such  belief,  save 
you  put  your  tongue  in  your  cheek,  marks  you 
peculiar. 

Long,  long,  ago  mankind  put  its  best  strength,  its 
best  thought,  its  best  life,  into  its  works,  without 
regard  for  the  price,  simply  because  it  was  its  work. 
And  the  work  so  wrought  in  those  queer  old-fashioned 
days  has  most  curiously  endured.  There  is  little 
danger  that  much  of  our  modern,  down-to-date  work, 
will  endure  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  we  do 
not  want  it  to  endure.  "The  world  wants  something 
new."  Down-to-date-ism  does  not  want  its  work  to 
last  longer  than  the  dollar  it  brings.  Never  fear,  the 
world  is  getting  something  new!  But,  though  we 
have  grown  so  bravely  away  from  those  queer,  old- 
fashioned  days  we  have  not  succeeded  yet  in  growing 
altogether  away  from  the  works  that  those  old-fash 
ioned  days  produced.  But,  patience,  old  world — 

184 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

patience — down-to-date-ism  may,  in  time,  accomplish 
even  this. 

In  those  old,  old,  times,  too,  it  was  the  fashion  for 
men  and  women  to  mate  in  love.  In  love,  they 
planned  and  builded  their  homes.  In  love,  they 
brought  forth  children  and  reared  them,  with  queer, 
old-fashioned  notions  about  marriage,  to  serve  the 
race.  In  those  times,  now  so  sadly  old  and  out-of- 
date,  men  planned  and  labored  for  homes  and  chil 
dren  and  women  were  home  makers  and  mothers.  But 
the  world  is  now  far  from  those  ancient  ways 
and  out-of-date  ideals.  Marriage  has  little  to  do 
with  home  making  these  modern  days.  It  has  al 
most  nothing  to  do  with  children.  We  have,  in  our 
down-to-date-ism,  come  to  be  a  nation  of  childless 
wives  arid  homeless  husbands.  We  are  dwellers  in 
flats,  apartments,  hotels,  where  children  would  be  in 
the  way  but  dogs  are  welcome  if  only  they  be  useless 
dogs.  We  live  in  houses  that  are  always  for  sale  or 
rent.  It  is  our  proud  boast  that  we  possess  nothing 
that  is  not  on  the  market  for  a  price.  The  thought 
of  selling  a  home  is  not  painful  for  we  do  not  know 
the  value  of  a  home.  We  have,  for  convenience,  to 
gratify  our  modern,  down-to-date,  ever  changing 
tastes,  popularized  the  divorce  court  as  though  a  hus 
band  or  wife  of  more  than  three  seasons  is  old-fash- 

185 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

ioned  and  should  be  discarded  for  one  of  a  newer 
pattern,  more  in  harmony  with  our  modern  ideals 
of  marriage. 

From  the  down-to-date — the  all-the-way-down-to- 
date  woman,  I  mean — one  gains  new  and  modern 
ideas  of  the  service  that  womankind  is  to  render  to 
the  race.  Almost  it  is  as  though  God  did  not  know 
what  he  was  about  when  he  made  woman.  To  place 
a  home  above  a  club;  a  nursery  above  the  public 
platform;  a  fireside  above  politics;  the  prattle  of 
children  above  newspaper  notoriety ;  the  love  of  boys 
and  girls  above  the  excitement  of  social  conquest; 
the  work  of  bearing  strong  men  and  true  women  for 
the  glory  of  the  race  above  the  near  intellectual  pur 
suits  and  the  attainments  of  a  shallow  thinking;  all 
this  is  to  be  sadly  old-fashioned.  All  this  is  so 
behind-the-times  that  one  must  confess  such  shocking 
taste  with  all  humiliation. 

I  hereby  beg  pardon  of  the  down-to-date  powers 
that  be,  and  most  humbly  pray  that  they  will 
graciously  forgive  my  boorishness.  I  assure  you 
that,  after  all,  I  am  not  so  benighted  that  I  do  not 
realize  how  seriously  babies  would  interfere  in  the 
affairs  of  those  down-to-date  women  who  are  elevating 
the  race.  By  all  means  let  the  race  be  elevated 
though  it  perish,  childless,  in  the  process.  Very  soon, 

186 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

now,  womanhood  itself  will  be  out-of-date  for  the 
world,  in  this  also,  seems  to  be  evolving  something 
new. 

So  the  woman,  who  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman, 
most  of  all,  was  tired  of  things  new  and  longed,  deep 
in  her  heart,  for  the  old,  old,  things  that  were  built 
into  the  very  foundation  of  the  race  and  that  no 
amount  of  gilding  and  trimming  and  ornamenting 
can  ever  cover  up  or  hide;  and  no  amount  of  disre 
garding  or  ignoring  can  do  away  with;  lest  indeed 
the  race  perish  from  the  earth. 

"And  when  do  you  take  your  vacation?"  asked  a 
fellow  worker  as  they  were  leaving  the  building  after 
the  day's  work. 

"Not  until  the  last  of  the  month,"  returned  the 
woman  wearily.  "And  you  ?" 

"Me,  oh,  I  must  go  Monday!  And  it's  such  a 
shame !  I've  just  received  a  charming  invitation  for 
two  weeks  later  but  no  one  cares  to  exchange  time 
with  me.  No  one,  you  see,  can  go  on  such  short 
notice.  I  don't  suppose  that  you — "  she  paused  sug 
gestively. 

"I  will  exchange  time  with  you,"  said  the  woman 
simply. 

"Will  you  really?  Now,  that  is  clever  of  you! 
Are  you  sure  that  you  don't  mind  ?" 

187 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

"Indeed,  I  will  be  glad  to  get  away  earlier." 

"But  can  you  get  ready  to  go  so  soon  ?" 

The  woman  smiled.  "I  shall  do  very  little  getting 
ready.7' 

The  other  looked  at  her  musingly.  "N"o,  I  sup 
pose  not,  you  are  so  queer  that  way.  Seems  to  me 
I  can't  find  time  enough  to  make  new  things.  One 
just  must  keep  up,  you  know." 

"It  is  settled  then  ?"  asked  the  woman,  at  the 
corner  where  they  parted. 

"It  will  be  so  good  of  you,"  murmured  the  other. 

The  woman  had  many  invitations  to  spend  her 
brief  vacation  with  friends,  but,  that  night,  she 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  people  who  lived  in  her  old 
home  and  asked  if  they  would  take  her  for  two 
weeks,  requesting  that  they  telegraph  their  answer. 
When  the  message  came,  she  wired  them  to  meet  her 
and  went  by  the  first  train. 

At  the  old  home  station,  her  train  took  a  siding  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  yards  to  let  the  outgoing  express 
pass.  From  the  window  where  she  sat  the  woman 
saw  a  tall  man,  dressed  in  a  business  suit  of  quiet 
gray,  standing  on  the  rear  platform  of  the  slowly 
moving  outbound  train  and  waving  his  hand  to  some 
one  on  the  depot  platform.  Just  a  glimpse  she  had  of 
him  before  he  passed  from  sight  as  her  own  train 

388 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

moved  ahead  to  stop  at  the  depot  where  she  was 
greeted  by  her  host.  Not  until  they  were  driving 
toward  her  old  home  did  the  woman  know  who  it 
was  that  she  had  seen. 

The  woman  was  interested  in  all  that  the  people 
had  to  tell  about  her  old  playmate  and  asked  not  a 
few  questions  but  she  was  glad  that  he  had  not  known 
of  her  coming.  She  was  glad  that  he  was  gone. 
The  man  and  the  woman  were  strangers  and  the 
woman  did  not  wish  to  meet  a  stranger.  The  boy 
lived,  for  her,  only  in  her  Yesterdays  and  the  woman 
told  herself  that  she  was  glad  because  she  feared 
that  the  man,  if  she  met  him,  would  rob  her  of  the 
boy.  She  feared  that  he  would  be  like  so  many  that 
she  had  been  forced  to  know  in  the  world  that  denied 
her  womanhood.  She  had  determined  to  be  for  two 
weeks,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  be, 
just  a  girl  again  and  she  wanted  no  company  other 
than  the  little  boy  who  lived  only  in  the  long  ago. 

As  soon  as  supper  was  over  she  retired  to  her 
room — to  the  little  room  that  had  been  hers  in  her 
childhood — where,  before  lighting  the  lamp,  she  sat 
for  awhile  at  the  open  window  looking  out  into  the 
night,  breathing  long  and  deep  of  the  pure  air  that 
was  sweetly  perfumed  with  the  odor  of  the  meadows 
and  fields.  In  the  brooding  quiet;  in  the  soft  night 

189 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

sounds;  in  the  fragrant  breeze  that  gently  touched 
her  hair;  she  felt  the  old,  old,  forces  of  life  calling 
to  her  womanhood  and  felt  her  womanhood  stir  in 
answer.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  there  giving  free 
rein  to  the  thoughts  and  longings  that,  in  her  city  life, 
she  was  forced  to  suppress. 

Rising  at  last,  as  though  with  quick  resolution, 
she  lighted  her  lamp  and  prepared  for  bed ;  loosening 
her  hair  and  deftly  arranging  the  beautiful,  shining, 
mass  that  fell  over  her  shoulders  in  a  long  braid. 
Then,  smiling  as  she  would  have  smiled  at  the  play 
of  a  child,  she  knelt  before  her  trunk  and,  taking 
something  from  its  depth,  quickly  put  out  the  light 
again  and  once  more  seated  herself  in  a  low  rocking 
chair  by  the  open  window. 

Had  there  been  any  one  to  see,  they  would  not 
have  understood.  Who  is  there,  indeed,  to  under 
stand  the  heart  of  womanhood  ?  The  woman,  sitting 
in  the  dark  before  the  window  in  that  room  so  full  of 
the  memories  of  her  childhood,  held  close  in  her 
arms  an  ancient  doll  whose  face  had  been  washed  so 
many  times  by  its  little  mother  that  it  was  but  a 
smudge  of  paint. 

That  night  the  woman  slept  as  a  child  sleeps  after 
a  long,  busy,  happy,  childhood  day — slept  to  open 
her  eyes  in  the  morning  while  the  birds  in  the  trees 

190 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

outside  her  window  were  heralding  the  coming  of  the 
sun.  Rising  she  looked  and  saw  the  sky  glorious 
with  the  light  of  dawning  day.  Flaming  streamers 
of  purple  and  scarlet  and  silver  floated  high  over  the 
buildings  and  trees  next  door.  The  last  of  the 
pale  stars  sank  into  the  ocean  of  blue  and,  from 
behind  the  old  orchard  above  the  house  where  the 
boy  lived,  long  shafts  of  golden  light  shot  up  as  if 
aimed  by  some  heavenly  archer  hiding  behind  the 
hill. 

When  the  day  was  fully  come,  the  woman  quickly 
dressed  and  went  out  into  the  yard.  The  grass  was 
dew  drenched  and  fragrant  under  her  feet.  The 
flowers  were  fresh  and  inviting.  But  she  did  not 
pause  until,  out  in  the  garden,  at  the  farther  corner, 
close  by  the  hedge,  she  stood  under  the  cherry  tree — 
sacred  cathedral  of  her  Yesterdays. 

When  she  turned  again  to  go  back  to  the  house, 
the  woman's  face  was  shining  with  the  light  that 
glows  only  in  the  faces  of  those  women  who  know 
that  they  are  women  and  who  dream  the  dreams  of 
womanhood. 

So  the  woman  spent  her  days.  Down  in  the  little 
valley  by  the  brook,  that,  as  it  ran  over  the  pebbly 
bars,  drifted  in  the  flickering  light  and  shade  of  the 
willows,  slipped  between  the  green  banks,  or  crept 

191 


THEIK  YESTEEDAYS 

softly  beneath  the  grassy  arch,  sang  its  song  of  the 
Yesterdays :  up  in  the  orchard  beyond  the  neighboring- 
house  where  so  many,  many,  times  she  had  helped 
the  boy  play  out  his  dreams ;  on  the  porch,  in  the  soft 
twilight,  watching  the  stars  as  they  blossomed  above 
while  up  from  the  dusky  shadows  in  the  valley  below 
came  the  call  of  the  whip-poor-will  and  the  bats  on 
silent  wings  flitted  to  and  fro;  out  in  the  garden 
under  the  cherry  tree  in  the  corner  near  the  hedge — 
in  all  the  loved  haunts  of  the  boy  and  girl — she 
spent  her  days. 

And  the  tired  look  went  out  of  her  eyes.  Strength 
returned  to  her  weary  body,  courage  to  her  heart, 
and  calmness  to  her  over-wrought  nerves.  Amid 
those  scenes  of  her  Yesterdays  she  was  made  ready 
to  go  back  to  the  world  that  values  so  highly  things 
that  are  new,  and,  in  the  strength  of  the  old,  old, 
things  to  keep  the  dreams  of  her  womanhood.  And, 
as  she  went,  there  was  that  in  her  face  that  all  men 
love  to  see  in  the  face  of  womankind. 

Poor  old  world !  Someday,  perhaps,  it  will  awake 
from  its  feverish  dream  to  find  that  God  made  some 
things  in  the  heart  of  the  race  too  big  to  be  out 
grown. 


192 


TEMPTATION 

!HE  heights  of  Life  are  fortified. 
\\  They  are  guarded  by  narrow  passes 
where  the  world  must  go  single  file  and 
where,  if  one  slip  from  the  trail,  he  falls 
into  chasms  of  awful  depths;  by  cliffs  of  apparent 
impassable  abruptness  which,  if  in  scaling,  one  lose 
his  head  he  is  lost;  and  by  false  trails  that  seem  to 
promise  easy  going  but  lead  in  the  wrong  direction. 
Xot  in  careless  ease  are  those  higher  levels  gained. 
The  upward  climb  is  one  of  strenuous  effort,  of  des 
perate  struggle,  of  hazardous  risk.  Only  those  who 
prove  themselves  fit  may  gain  the  top. 

Somewhere  in  the  life  of  every  man  there  is  a 
testing  time.  There  is  a  trial  to  prove  of  what  metal 
he  is  made.  There  is  a  point  which,  won  or  lost, 
makes  him  winner  or  loser  in  the  game.  There  is  a 
Temptation  that  to  him  is  vital. 

To  pray:  "Lead  us  not  into  temptation,"  is  di 
vine  wisdom  for  Temptation  lies  in  wait.  There  is 
no  need  to  seek-  it.  And,  when  once  it  is  met,  there 
is  no  dodging  the  issue  or  shifting  the  burden  of 

193 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

responsibility.  In  the  greatest  gifts  that  men  possess 
are  the  seeds  which,  if  grown  and  cultivated,  yield 
poisonous  fruit.  In  the  very  forces  that  men  use 
for  greatest  good  are  the  elements  of  their  own  de 
struction.  And,  whatever  the  guise  in  which  Temp 
tation  comes,  the  tempter  is  always  the  same — Self. 
Temptation  spells  always  the  mastery  of  or  the  sur 
render  to  one's  self. 

Once  I  stood  on  a  mighty  cliff  with  the  ocean  at 
my  feet.  Far  below,  the  waves  broke  with  a  soothing 
murmur  that  scarce  could  reach  my  ears  and  the  gray 
gulls  were  playing  here  and  there  like  shadows  of  half 
forgotten  dreams.  In  the  distance,  the  fishing  boats 
rolled  lazily  on  the  gentle  swell  and  the  sunlight 
danced  upon  the  surface  of  the  sea.  Then,  as  I 
looked,  on  the  far  horizon  the  storm  chieftain  gath 
ered  his  clans  for  war.  I  saw  the  red  banners 
flashing.  I  watched  the  hurried  movements  of  the 
dark  and  threatening  ranks.  I  heard  the  rumbling 
tread  of  the  tramping  feet.  And,  like  airy  messen 
gers  sent  to  warn  me,  the  gusts  of  wind  came  racing 
and  wailed  and  sobbed  about  the  cliff  because  I 
would  not  heed  their  warning.  The  startled  boats 
in  the  offing  spread  their  white  wings  and  scurried 
to  the  shelter  of  their  harbor  nests.  The  gray  gulls 
vanished.  The  sunlight  danced  no  more  upon  the 

194 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

surface  of  the  sea.  And  then,  as  the  battle  front 
rolled  above  my  head,  the  billows,  lashed  to  fury  by 
the  wind  and  flinging  in  the  air  the  foam  of  their 
own  madness,  came  rushing  on  to  try  their  strength 
against  the  grim  and  silent  rock.  Again  and  again 
they  hurled  their  giant  forms  upon  the  cliff,  until  the 
roar  of  the  surf  below  drowned  even  the  thunder  in 
the  clouds  above  and  the  solid  earth  trembled  with 
the  shock,  but  their  very  strength  was  their  ruin 
and  they  were  dashed  in  impotent  spray  from  the 
stalwart  object  of  their  assault.  And  at  last,  when 
the  hours  of  the  struggle  were  over;  when  the  storm 
soldiers  had  marched  on  to  their  haunts  behind  the 
hills;  when  the  gulls  had  returned  to  their  sports; 
and  the  sun  shone  again  on  the  waters;  I  saw  the 
bosom  of  the  ocean  rise  and  fall  like  the  breast  of 
an  angry  child  exhausted  with  its  passion  while  the 
cliff,  standing  stern  and  silent,  seemed  to  look,  with 
mingled  pride  and  pity,  upon  its  foe  now  moaning 
at  its  feet. 

Like  that  cliff,  I  say,  is  the  soul  of  a  man  who,  in 
temptation,  gains  the  mastery  of  himself.  The  storm 
clouds  of  life  may  gather  darkly  over  his  head  but  he 
shall  not  tremble.  The  lightning  of  the  world's 
wrath  and  the  thunder  of  man's  disapproval  shall 
not  move  him.  The  waves  of  passion  that  so  try  the 

195 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

strength  of  men  shall  be  dashed  in  impotent  spray 
from  his  stalwart  might.  And  when,  at  last,  the 
storms  of  life  are  over — when  the  sun  shines  again 
on  the  waters  as  it  shone  hefore  the  fight  began — he 
shall  still  stand,  calm  and  unmoved,  master  of  him 
self  and  men. 

Because  these  things  are  true,  I  say:  that  Temp 
tation  is  one  of  the  Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of 
Life. 

And  the  man  knew  these  things — knew  them  as 
well  as  you  know  them.  In  the  full  knowledge  of 
these  things  he  came  to  his  testing  time.  To  win 
or  to  lose,  in  the  full  knowledge  of  all  that  victory 
or  defeat  meant  to  him,  he  went  to  his  Temptation. 

It  was  early  winter  when  his  time  came  but  he 
knew  that  first  morning  after  he  had  returned  from 
his  vacation  that  it  was  coming.  The  moment  he 
entered  the  room  to  take  up  again  the  task  of  putting 
his  dreams  into  action,  he  saw  her  and  felt  her 
power  for  she  was  one  of  those  women  who  compel 
recognition  of  their  sex  as  the  full  noonday  sun 
compels  recognition  of  its  light  and  heat. 

An  hour  later  her  duties  brought  her  to  him,  and, 
for  a  few  moments,  they  stood  face  to  face.  And 
the  man,  while  he  instructed  her  in  the  work  that 
she  was  to  do,  felt  the  strength  of  her  power  even 

196 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

as  a  strong  swimmer  feels  the  current  of  the  stream. 
Through  her  eyes,  in  her  voice,  in  her  presence,  this 
woman  challenged  the  man,  made  him  more  conscious 
of  her  than  of  his  work.  The  subtle,  insinuating, 
luring,  strength  of  her  beat  upon  him,  enveloped  him, 
thrilled  him.  As  she  turned  to  go  back  to  her  place, 
his  eyes  followed  her  and  he  knew  that  he  was  ap 
proaching  a  great  crisis  in  his  life.  He  knew  that 
soon  or  late  he  would  be  forced  into  a  battle  with 
himself  and  that  tremendous  stakes  would  be  at  issue. 
He  knew  that  victory  would  give  him  increased 
power,  larger  capacity,  and  a  firmer  grip  upon  the 
enduring  principles  of  life  or  defeat  would  make  of 
him  a  slave,  with  enfeebled  spirit,  humiliated  and 
ashamed. 

Every  day,  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  the  man  was 
forced  to  see  her — to  talk  with  her — to  feel  her 
strength.  And  every  day  he  felt  himself  carried 
irresistibly  onward  toward  the  testing  that  he  knew 
must  come.  He  was  conscious,  too,  that  the  woman, 
also,  knew  and  understood  and  that  it  pleased  her 
so  to  use  her  power.  She  willed  that  he  should  feel 
her  presence.  In  a  thousand  subtle  forms  she  re 
peated  her  challenge.  In  ways  varied  without  num 
ber  she  called  to  him,  lured  him,  led  him.  To  do 
this  seemed  a  necessity  to  her.  She  was  one  of  those 

197 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

women  whose  natures  seem  to  demand  this  expres 
sion  of  themselves.  Instinctively,  she  made  all  men 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact  feel  her  power  and, 
instinctively — unconsciously,  perhaps — she  gloried  in 
her  strength. 

If  the  man  could  have  had  other  things  in  com 
mon  with  her  it  would  have  been  different.  If  there 
had  been,  as  well,  the  appeal  of  the  intellect — of  the 
spirit — if  the  beauty  of  her  had  been  to  him  an 
expression  of  something  more  than  her  sex — if  there 
had  been  ideals,  hopes,  longings,  fears,  even  sorrow  or 
regret,  common  to  both,  it  would  have  been  different. 
But  there  was  nothing.  Often  the  man  sought  to  find 
something  more  but  there  was  nothing.  So  he  per 
mitted  himself  to  be  carried  onward  by  a  current 
against  which,  when  the  time  should  come,  he  knew  he 
would  need  to  fight  with  all  his  might.  And  always, 
as  the  current  swept  him  onward  toward  the  point 
where  he  must  make  the  decisive  struggle,  he  felt  the 
woman's  power  over  him  growing  ever  greater. 

At  last  it  came. 

It  was  Saturday.  The  man  left  the  place  where  he 
worked  earlier  than  usual  that  he  might  walk  to  his 
rooms  for  he  felt  the  need  of  physical  action.  He 
felt  a  strong  desire  to  run,  to  leap,  to  use  his  splendid 
muscles  that  throbbed  and  exulted  with  such  vigorous 

198 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

life.  As  he  strode  along  the  streets,  beyond  the  busi 
ness  district,  he  held  his  head  high,  he  looked  full 
into  the  faces  of  the  people  he  met  with  a  bold 
challenging  look.  The  cool,  bracing  air,  of  early 
winter  was  grateful  on  his  glowing  skin  and  he 
drank  long  deep  breaths  of  it  as  one  would  drink 
an  invigorating  tonic.  Every  nerve  and  fiber  of  him 
was  keenly,  gloriously,  alive  with  the  strength  of  his 
splendid  manhood.  Every  nerve  and  fiber  of  him 
was  conscious  of  her  and  exulted  in  that  which  he 
had  seen  in  her  eyes  when  she  had  told  him  that  she 
would  be  at  home  that  evening  and  that  she  would 
be  glad  to  have  him  call.  With  all  his  senses  ab 
normally  alert,  he  saw  and  noted  everything  about 
him.  A  thousand  trivial,  commonly  unseen  things, 
along  his  way  and  in  the  faces,  dress,  and  manner, 
of  the  people  whom  he  met,  caught  his  eye.  Yet, 
always,  vividly  before  him,  was  the  face  of  her  whose 
power  he  had  felt.  Under  it  all,  he  was  conscious 
that  this  was  his  testing  time.  He  knew — or  it 
would  have  been  no  Temptation — it  would  have  been 
no  trial.  Impatiently  he  glanced  at  his  watch  and,  as 
he  neared  the  place  where  he  lived,  quickened  his 
stride,  springing  up  the  steps  of  the  house  at  last 
with  a  burst  of  eager  haste. 

In  the  front  hall,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  the  little 
199 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

daughter  of  his  landlady  greeted  him  with  shouts 
of  delight  and,  with  the  masterful  strength  of  four 
feminine  years,  dragged  him,  a  willing  captive, 
through  the  open  door  to  her  mother's  pleasant  sit 
ting  room.  She  was  a  beautiful,  dainty,  little  miss 
with  hair  and  eyes  very  like  that  playmate  of  the 
man's  Yesterdays  and  it  was  his  custom  to  pay  trib 
ute  to  her  charms  in  the  coin  of  childhood  as  faith 
fully  and  as  regularly  as  he  paid  his  board. 

Seated  noAV,  with  the  baby  on  his  lap  and  the 
smiling  mother  looking  on,  he  produced,  after  the 
usual  pretense  of  denial  and  long  search  through 
many  pockets,  the  weekly  offering.  And  then,  as 
though  some  guardian  angel  willed  it  so,  the  little 
girl  did  a  thing  that  she  had  never  done  before. 
Putting  two  plump  and  dimpled  arms  about  his  neck 
she  said  gravely:  "Mamma  don't  like  me  to  kiss 
folks,  you  know,  but  she  said  she  wouldn't  care  if  I 
kissed  you."  Whereupon  a  sweet  little  rosebud  mouth 
was  offered  trustingly,  with  loving  innocence,  to  his 
lips. 

A  crimson  flame  flushed  the  man's  face.  With  a 
laugh  of  embarrassment  and  a  quick  impulsive  hug 
he  held  the  child  close  and  accepted  her  offering. 

Then  he  went  quickly  upstairs  to  his  room. 

It  was  sometime  later  when  the  man  began  to 
200 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

prepare  for  the  evening  to  which  he  had  looked  for 
ward  with  such  eagerness  and  all  his  fierce  and  driv 
ing  haste  was  gone.  The  mad  tumult  of  his  manhood 
strength  was  stilled.  He  moved,  now,  with  a  pur 
pose,  sullen,  grim,  defiant.  The  fight  was  on.  While 
he  was  still  vividly  conscious  of  the  woman  whose 
compelling  power  he  felt,  he  felt,  now,  as  well,  the 
pure  touch  of  those  baby  lips.  While  he  still  saw  the 
light  in  the  woman's  eyes  and  sensed  the  meaning  of 
her  smile,  he  saw  and  sensed  as  clearly  the  loving 
innocence  that  had  shown  in  the  little  girl's  face  as 
it  was  lifted  up  to  his.  Upon  his  manhood's  strength 
lay  the  woman's  luring  spell.  Upon  his  manhood 
the  baby's  kiss  lay  as  a  seal  of  sacredness — upon  his 
lips  it  burned  as  a  coal  of  holy  fire.  The  fight 
was  on. 

The  man's  life  was  not  at  all  an  easy  life.  Beside 
his  work  and  his  memories  there  was  little  to  hold 
him  true.  Since  that  day  when  he  stood  face  to  face 
with  Life  and,  for  the  first  time,  knew  that  he  was  a 
man,  he  had  been,  save  for  a  few  friends  among  the 
men  of  his  own  class,  alone.  The  exacting  demands 
of  his  work  had  left  him  little  time  or  means  to  spend 
in  seeking  social  pleasures  or  in  the  delights  of  fellow 
ship  with  those  for  whose  fellowship  he  would  have 
cared,  even  had  the  way  to  their  society  been,  at  that 

201 


THEIR  YESTEEDAYS 

period  of  his  life,  open  to  him.  He  told  himself, 
always,  that  sometime  in  the  future,  when  he  had 
worked  out  still  farther  his  dreams,  he  would  find 
the  way  to  the  social  life  that  he  would  enjoy  but 
until  then,  he  must,  of  necessity,  live  much  alone. 
And  now — now — the  testing  time — the  crisis  in  his 
life — had  come.  Even  as  it  must  come  to  every  man 
who  knows  his  manhood  so  it  had  come  to  him. 

The  man  was  not  deceived.  He  knew  the  price  he 
would  pay  in  defeat.  But,  even  while  he  knew  this — 
even  while  he  knew  what  defeat  would  mean  to  him, 
eo  great  was  her  power  that  he  went  on  making  ready 
to  go  to  her.  With  the  kiss  of  the  little  girl  upon 
his  lips  he  made  ready  to  go  to  the  woman.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  drifted  too  far  and  the  current  had 
become  too  strong  for  him  to  turn  back.  Thus  do 
such  men  yield  to  such  temptations.  Thus  are  men 
betrayed  by  the  very  strength  of  their  manhood. 

With  mad  determination  he  waited  the  hour.  Un 
easily  he  paced  his  room.  He  tried  to  read.  He 
threw  himself  into  a  chair  only  to  arise  and  move 
about  again.  Every  few  moments  he  impatiently 
consulted  his  watch.  At  every  step  in  the  hall,  with 
out  his  door,  he  started  as  if  alarmed.  He  became 
angry,  in  a  blind  rage,  with  the  woman,  with  him 
self  and  even  with  the  little  girl.  At  last,  when  it 

202 


Two  dimpled  arms  went  around  his  neck 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

was  time  to  go,  he  threw  on  his  overcoat,  took  his 
hat  and  gloves,  and,  with  a  long,  careful  look  about 
the  room,  laid  his  hand  on  the  door.  He  knew  that 
the  man  who  was  going  out  that  evening  would  not 
come  back  to  his  room  the  same  man.  He  knew  that 
that  man  could  never  come  back.  He  felt  as  though 
he  was  giving  up  his  apartments  to  a  stranger.  So 
he  hesitated,  with  his  hand  upon  the  door,  looking 
long  and  carefully  about.  Then  quickly  he  threw 
open  the  door  and,  down  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs, 
went  as  one  who  has  counted  the  cost  and  determined 
recklessly. 

The  man  had  opened  the  front  door  and  was  about 
to  pass  out  when  a  sweet  voice  called:  "Wait,  oh, 
wait." 

Turning,  he  saw  a  tiny  figure  in  white  flying  to 
ward  him. 

The  little  girl,  all  ready  for  bed,  had  caught  sight 
of  him  and,  for  the  moment,  had  escaped  from  her 
mother's  attention. 

The  man  shut  the  door  and  caught  her  up.  Two 
dimpled  arms  went  around  his  neck  and  the  rosebud 
mouth  was  lifted  to  his  lips. 

Then  the  mother  came  and  led  her  away  while  the 
man  stood  watching  her  as  she  went. 

Would  he  ever  dare  touch  those  baby  lips  again 
203 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

he  wondered.  Could  he,  he  asked  himself,  could  he 
face  again  those  baby  eyes  ?  Could  he  ever  again 
bear  the  feeling  of  that  soft  little  body  in  his  arms  ? 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  hall,  she  turned,  and, 
seeing  him  still  there,  waved  her  hand  with  a  merry 
call:  aGood-bye,  good-bye." 

Then  she  passed  from  his  sight  and,  in  place  of 
this  little  girl  of  rosy,  dimpled,  flesh,  the  startled  man 
saw  a  dainty  maiden  of  his  Yesterdays,  standing 
under  a  cherry  tree  with  fallen  petals  of  the  delicate 
blossoms  in  her  wayward  hair,  and  with  eyes  that 
looked  at  him  very  gravely  and  a  little  frightened 
as,  for  the  shaggy  coated  minister,  he  spoke  the 
solemn  words :  "I  pronounce  you  husband  and  wife 
and  anything  that  God  has  done  must  never  be  done 
any  different  by  anybody  forever  and  ever,  Amen." 
By  some  holy  magic  the  kiss  of  the  little  girl  became 
the  kiss  of  his  play  wedding  wife  of  the  long  ago. 

Very  slowly  the  man  went  up  the  stairs  again  to 
his  room;  there  to  spend  the  evening  not  as  he  had 
planned,  when  he  was  in  the  mastering  grip  of  self, 
but  safe  in  the  quiet  harbor  of  the  Yesterdays  where 
the  storms  of  life  break  not  or  are  felt  only  in  those 
gentle  ripples  that  scarce  can  stir  the  surface  of  the 
sea. 

The  fierce  passion  that  had  shaken  the  very  soul  of 
204 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

him  passed  on  as  the  storm  clouds  pass.  In  the  calm 
of  the  days  that  were  gone,  he  rested  as  one  who  has 
fought  a  good  fight  and,  safe  from  out  the  turmoil 
and  the  danger,  has  come  victoriously  into  the  peace 
that  passeth  all  understanding. 

In  the  sweet  companionship  of  his  childhood  mate, 
with  the  little  girl  who  lived  next  door,  the  man 
found  again,  that  night,  his  better  self.  In  the  boy 
of  the  long-ago,  he  found  again  his  ideals  of  man 
hood.  In  his  Yesterdays,  he  found  strength  to  stand 
against  the  power  of  the  temptation  that  assailed 
him. 

Blessed,  blessed  Yesterdays ! 


It  was  the  time  of  the  first  snow  when,  again,  the 
woman  sat  alone  in  her  room  before  the  fire,  with 
her  door  fast  locked  and  the  shades  drawn  close,  even 
as  on  that  other  night — the  night  when  her  woman 
hood  began  in  dreams. 

In  the  soft  dusk,  while  the  shadows  of  the  flicker 
ing  light  came  and  went  upon  the  walls  and  the  quiet 
was  broken  only  by  the  tick,  tick,  tick,  of  the  time 
piece  held  in  the  chubby  arms  of  the  fat  cupid  on  the 
mantle,  the  woman  sat  very  still.  Eace  to  face  with 
her  Temptation,  she  sat  alone  and  very  still. 

205 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

For  several  months,  the  woman  had  seen  her  testing 
time  approaching.  That  day  when,  looking  into  her 
eyes,  the  man  of  authority  had  so  kindly  bidden  her 
leave  her  work  for  the  afternoon,  she  had  known  that 
this  time  would  come.  In  the  passing  weeks  she  had 
realized  that  the  day  was  approaching  when  she 
must  decide  both  for  him  and  for  herself.  She  had 
not  sought  to  prevent  the  coming  of  that  day.  She 
had  knowingly  permitted  it  to  come.  She  was  even 
pleased  in  a  way  to  watch  it  drawing  near.  Not 
once,  in  those  weeks,  had  he  failed  to  be  very  kind 
or  ceased  to  make  her  feel  that  he  understood.  In 
a  hundred  ways,  as  their  work  called  them  together 
and  gave  opportunity,  he  had  told  her,  in  voice  and 
look  and  the  many  ways  of  wordless  speech,  that  the 
time  was  coming.  He  had  been  very  careful,  too — 
very  careful — that,  in  their  growing  friendship,  the 
world  should  have  no  opportunity  to  misjudge.  And 
the  woman,  seeing  his  care,  was  grateful  and  valued 
his  friendship  the  more. 

Bo  had  come  at  last  that  Saturday  when,  with  low 
spoken  words,  at  the  close  of  the  day's  work,  he  had 
asked  if  he  might  call  upon  her  the  following  even 
ing  ;  saying  gravely,  as  he  looked  down  into  her  face, 
that  he  had  something  very  important  to  tell  her. 
And  she  had  gravely  said  that  he  might  come ;  while 

206 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

her  blushes  to  him  confessed  that  she  knew  what  it 
was  of  importance  that  he  would  say. 

Scarcely  had  she  reached  her  home  that  afternoon 
when  a  messenger  hoy  appeared  with  a  great  armful 
of  roses  and,  as  she  arranged  the  flowers  on  her  table, 
burying  her  flushed  face  again  and  again  in  their 
fragrant  coolness,  she  had  told  herself  that  to-morrow, 
when  he  asked  her  to  cross  with  him  the  threshold 
of  that  old,  old  door,  she  would  answer:  yes.  But, 
even  as  she  so  resolved,  she  had  been  conscious  of 
something  in  her  heart  that  denied  the  resolution  of 
her  mind. 

And  so  it  was  that,  as  she  sat  alone  before  her  fire 
that  night,  she  knew  that  she  was  face  to  face  with 
a  crisis  in  her  life.  So  it  was  that  she  had  come  to 
the  testing  time  and  knew  that  she  must  win  or  lose 
alone.  In  the  sacred  privacy  of  her  room,  with  the 
perfume  of  his  roses  filling  the  air  and  the  certainty 
that  when  he  came  on  the  morrow  she  must  answer, 
she  looked  into  the  future  to  see,  if  she  might,  what 
it  held  for  her  and  for  him  if  she  should  cross  with 
him  the  threshold  of  that  old,  old,  door. 

He  was  a  man  whose  love  would  honor  any  woman 
— this  she  knew.  And  he  was  a  man  of  power  and 
influence  in  the  world — a  man  who  could  provide 
for  his  mate  a  home  of  which  any  woman  would  be 

207 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

proud  to  be  the  mistress.  Nor  could  she  doubt  his 
love  for  nothing  else  could  have  persuaded  such  a 
man  to  ask  of  a  woman  that  which  he  was  coming  to 
ask  of  her. 

Beginning  with  her  answer  on  the  following  even 
ing  the  woman  traced,  in  thought,  all  that  would 
follow.  She  saw  herself  leaving  the  life  that  she 
had  never  desired  because  it  could  not  recognize  her 
womanhood  and,  in  fancy,  received  the  congratula 
tions  of  her  friends.  She  lived,  in  her  imagination, 
those  busy  days  when  she  would  be  making  ready  for 
the  day  that  was  to  come.  Very  clearly,  she  pictured 
to  herself  the  wedding ;  it  would  be  a  quiet  wedding, 
she  told  herself,  but  as  beautiful  and  complete  as 
cultured  taste  and  wealth  could  make  it.  Then  they 
would  go  away,  for  a  time,  to  those  cities  and  lands 
beyond  the  sea  that,  all  her  life,  she  had  longed  to 
visit.  When  they  returned,  it  would  be  to  that  beau 
tiful  old  home  of  his  family — the  home  that  she  had 
so  often,  in  passing,  admired;  and  in  that  home,  so 
long  occupied  by  him  alone,  she  would  be  the  proud 
mistress.  And  then — then — would  come  her  children 
— their  children — and  so  all  the  fulfillment  of  her 
womanhood's  dreams. 

But  the  woman's  face,  as  she  looked  into  a  future 
that  seemed  as  bright  as  ever  woman  dared  to  dream, 

208 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

was  troubled.  As  she  traced  the  way  that  lay  so 
invitingly  before  her,  this  woman,  who  knew  herself 
to  be  a  woman,  was  sad.  Her  heart,  still,  was  as 
an  empty  room — a  room  that  is  furnished  and  ready 
but  without  a  tenant.  Deep  within  her  woman  heart 
she  knew  that  this  man  was  not  the  one  for  whom 
she  waited  by  the  open  door.  She  did  not  know  who 
it  was  for  whom  she  waited.  She  knew  only  that  this 
man  was  not  the  one.  And  she  wished — oh,  how  she 
wished — that  this  was  not  so.  Because  of  her  longing 
— because  of  the  dreams  of  her  womanhood — because 
of  her  empty  heart — she  was  resolved  to  cross  with 
this  man,  who  was  not  the  man  for  whom  she  waited, 
the  threshold  that  she  could  not  cross  alone.  Honor, 
regard,  respect,  the  affection  of  a  friend,  she  could 
give  him — did  give  him  indeed — but  she  knew  that 
this  was  not  enough  for  a  woman  to  give  the  man  with 
whom  she  would  enter  that  old,  old,  door. 

Rising,  the  woman  went  to  her  mirror  to  study 
long  and  carefully  the  face  and  form  that  she  saw 
reflected  there.  She  saw  in  the  glass,  a  sweet, 
womanly,  beauty,  expressing  itself  in  the  color  and 
tone  of  the  clean  carved  features;  in  the  dainty 
texture  of  the  clear  skin  and  soft,  brown,  hair ;  and  in 
the  rounded  fullness  and  graceful  lines  of  the  finely- 
moulded  body.  Perfect  physical  strength  and  health 

209 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

was  there — vital,  glowing,  appealing.  And  culture 
of  mind,  trained  intelligence,  thoughtfulness,  was 
written  in  that  womanly  face.  And,  with  it  all, 
there  was  good  breeding,  proud  blood,  with  gentleness 
of  spirit. 

This  woman  knew  that  she  was  well  equipped  to 
stand  by  this  man's  side  however  high  his  place  in 
life.  She  was  well  fitted  to  become  the  mistress  of 
his  home  and  the  mother  of  his  children.  She  had 
guarded  well  the  choicest  treasures  of  her  woman 
hood.  She  had  squandered  none  of  the  wealth  that 
was  committed  to  her.  She  had  held  it  all  as  a  sacred 
trust  to  be  kept  by  her  for  that  one  with  whom  she 
should  go  through  the  old,  old  door.  And  she  had 
determined  that,  to-morrow  evening,  she  would  give 
herself,  with  all  the  riches  of  her  womanhood,  to  this 
one  who  could  give  her,  in  return,  the  home  of  her 
dreams.  While  her  heart  was  still  as  an  empty  room, 
she  had  determined  to  cross,  with  this  man,  the 
threshold  over  which  no  woman  may  again  return. 

Turning  from  her  mirror,  slowly  the  woman  went 
to  the  great  bunch  of  roses  that  stood  upon  her  table. 
They  were  his  roses;  and  they  fitly  expressed,  in 
their  costly  beauty,  the  life  that  he  was  coming  to 
offer  to  her.  Very  deliberately  she  bent  over  them, 
burying  her  face  in  the  mass  of  rich  color,  inhaling 

210 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

deeply  their  heavy  fragrance.  Thoughtfully  she  con 
sidered  them  and  all  that,  to  her,  they  symbolized. 
But  there  was  no  flush  upon  her  cheek  now.  There 
was  no  warmth  in  the  light  of  her  eyes.  No  glad 
excitement  thrilled  her.  There  was  no  trembling  in 
her  touch — no  eager  joyousness  in  her  manner. 

Suddenly,  some  roisterer,  passing  along  the  street 
with  his  companions,  laughed  a  loud,  reckless,  half 
drunken,  laugh  that  sounded  in  the  quiet  darkness 
with  startling  clearness. 

The  woman  sprang  back  from  the  flowers  as  though 
a  poisonous  serpent,  hidden  in  their  fragrant  beauty, 
had  struck  her.  With  a  swift  look  of  horror  on  her 
white  face  she  glanced  fearfully  about  the  room. 

Again  the  laugh  sounded;  this  time  farther  down 
the  street. 

The  woman  sank  into  her  chair,  trembling  with 
a  nameless  fear.  To  her,  that  laugh  in  the  dark 
had  sounded  as  the  laughter  of  the  crowd  that  day 
when  she  was  forced  so  close  to  the  outcast  women 
who  were  in  the  hands  of  the  police. 

"But  those  women,"  argued  the  frightened  woman 
with  herself,  "sell  themselves  to  all  men  for  a  price." 

"And  you,"  answered  the  heart  of  her  womanhood, 
"and  you,  also,  will  sell  yourself  to  one  man,  for  a 
price.  The  wealth  of  womanhood  committed  to  you 

211 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

— all  the  treasures  that  you  have  guarded  so  carefully 
— you  will  sell  now  to  this  good  man  for  the  price 
that  he  can  pay.  If  he  could  not  pay  the  price — if  he 
came  to  you  empty  handed — would  you  say  yes  ?" 

"But  I  will  he  true  to  him,"  argued  the  woman. 
"I  will  give  myself  to  him  and  to  him  only  as  wife 
to  husband." 

"You  are  being  false  to  him  already,"  replied  her 
woman  heart,  "for  you  are  selling  yourself,  not  giving 
yourself  to  him.  You  are  planning  to  deceive  him. 
You  would  make  him  think  that  he  is  taking  to  him 
self  a  wife  when,  for  a  price,  you  are  selling  to  him — • 
something  higher  than  a  public  woman,  it  is  true — • 
but  something,  as  true,  very  much  lower  than  a  wife. 
What  matter  whether  the  price  be  in  gold  and  silver 
or  in  property  and  social  position — it  is  a  price.  Ex 
cept  he  pay  you  your  price  he  could  not  have  you." 

And  what,  thought  the  woman,  what  if — after  she 
had  crossed  the  threshold  with  this  good  man — after 
she  had  entered  with  him  into  the  life  that  lay  on 
the  other  side  that  door — what  if,  then,  that  other 
one  should  come?  What  if  the  one  for  whom  her 
empty  heart  should  have  waited  were  to  come  and 
stand  alone  before  that  door  through  which  she  could 
not  go  back  ?  And  the  children — the  dear  children  of 
lier  dreams — what  of  them?  Had  not  her  unborn 

212 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

children  the  right  to  demand  that  they  be  born  in 
love  ?  And  if  she  should  say,  "no,"  to  this  man — 
if  she  should  turn  once  more  away  from  the  open 
door,  through  which  he  would  ask  her  to  go  with 
him — what  then  ?  What  if  that  one  who  had  delayed 
his  coming  so  long  should  never  come  ? 

And  then  the  woman,  who  knew  herself  to  be  a 
woman,  saw  the  lonely  years  come  and  go.  While  she 
waited  without  the  door  that  led  to  the  life  of  her 
womanhood's  dreams,  she  saw  the  beauty  that  her 
mirror  revealed  slowly  fading — saw  her  firm,  smooth, 
cheeks  become  thin  and  wrinkled,  her  bright  eyes 
grow  dim  and  pale,  her  soft,  brown,  hair  turn  thin 
and  gray,  her  body  grow  lean  and  stooped.  All  the 
wealth  of  her  womanhood  that  she  had  treasured  with 
such  care  she  saw  become  as  dust,  worthless.  All  the 
things  of  her  womanhood  she  would  be  forced  to 
spend  in  that  life  that  denied  her  womanhood,  and 
then,  when  she  had  nothing  left,  she  would  be  cast 
aside  as  a  worn  out  machine.  Never  to  know  the 
joy  of  using  her  womanhood !  Never  to  have  a 
home !  Never  to  feel  the  touch  of  a  baby  hand !  To 
lay  down  the  wealth  of  her  woman  life  and  go  empty 
and  alone  in  her  shriveled  old  age !  With  an  exclam 
ation,  the  woman  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stretched 
out  her  arms.  "No,  no,  no,"  she  whispered  fiercely, 

213 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

"anything,  anything,  but  that.  I  will  be  true  to  him. 
I  will  be  a  faithful  wife.  He  shall  never  know.  He 
shall  not  feel  that  he  is  cheated.  And  perhaps — " 
she  dropped  into  her  chair  again  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands  as  she  whispered — "perhaps,  bye  and 
bye,  God  will  let  me  love  him.  Surely,  God  will  let 
me  love  him,  bye  and  bye." 

Sometime  later,  the  woman  did  a  strange  thing. 
Going  to  her  desk,  softly,  as  a  thief  might  go,  she 
unlocked  a  drawer  and  took  from  it  a  small  jewel 
case.  For  several  moments  she  stood  under  the  light 
holding  the  little  velvet  box  in  her  hand  unopened. 
Then,  lifting  the  lid,  she  looked  within  and,  pres 
ently,  from  among  a  small  collection  of  trinkets  that 
had  no  value  save  to  her  who  knew  their  history, 
took  a  tiny  brass  ring.  Placing  the  box  on  the  dresser, 
she  tried,  musingly,  to  fit  the  little  ring  on  her  finger. 
On  each  finger  in  turn  she  tried,  but  it  would  go  only 
part  way  on  the  smallest  one;  and  she  smiled  sadly 
to  see  how  she  had  grown  since  that  day  under  the 
cherry  tree. 

Turning  again,  she  went  slowly  across  the  room  to 
the  fire  that  now  was  a  bed  of  glowing  coals.  For  a 
little  she  stood  looking  down  into  the  fire.  Then, 
slowly,  she  stretched  forth  her  hand  to  drop  the  ring. 
But  she  could  not  do  it.  She  could  not. 

214 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

Returning  the  little  circle  of  brass  to  its  place 
among  the  trinkets  in  the  jewel  box,  the  woman  pre 
pared  for  bed. 

The  timepiece  in  the  arms  of  the  fat  cupid  ticked 
loudly  now  in  the  darkness  that  was  only  faintly 
relieved  by  the  glowing  embers  of  the  fire. 

With  sleepless  eyes  the  woman  who  had  determined 
to  give  herself  without  love  lay  staring  into  the  dusk. 
But  she  did  not  see  the  darkness.  She  did  not  see  the 
grotesque  and  ghostly  objects  in  the  gloom.  ~Nor  did 
she  see  the  somber  shadows  that  came  and  went  as  the 
dying  fire  gained  fitful  strength.  The  woman  saw 
the  bright  sun  shining  on  the  meadows  and  fields  of 
the  long  ago.  She  saw  again  the  scenes  of  her  child 
hood.  Again,  as  she  stood  under  the  cherry  tree  that 
showered  its  delicate  blossoms  down  with  every  puff 
of  air,  she  looked  with  loving  confidence  into  the 
face  of  the  brown  cheeked  boy  who  spoke  so  seriously 
those  childish  vows.  Again,  upon  her  lips  she  felt 
that  kiss  of  the  childhood  mating. 

The  soft  light  of  the  fire  grew  fainter  and  fainter 
as  the  embers  slowly  turned  to  ashes.  Could  it  be 
that  the  woman,  in  her  temptation,  would  let  the 
sacred  fire  of  love  burn  altogether  out?  Must  the 
memories  of  her  Yesterdays  turn  to  ashes  too  ? 

The  last  faint  glow  was  almost  gone  when  the 
215 


THEIK  YESTEEDAYS 

woman  slipped  quickly  out  of  her  bed  and,  in  the 
darkness,  groped  her  way  across  the  room  to  the  desk 
where  she  found  the  little  jewel  case. 

And  I  think  that  the  fat  cupid  who  was  neglecting 
his  bow  and  arrows  to  wrestle  with  time  must  have 
been  pleased  to  see  the  woman,  a  little  later,  when 
the  dying  fire  flared  out  brightly  for  a  moment,  lying 
fast  asleep,  while,  upon  the  little  finger  of  the  hand 
that  lay  close  to  her  smiling  lips,  there  was  a  tiny 
circle  of  brass. 


216 


LIFE 

N"  childhood,  the  Master  of  Life  exalts 
Life.  A  baby  in  its  mother's  arms  is  the 
fullest  expression  of  Divinity. 

It  was  Christmas  time;  that  season  of 
the  year  when,  for  a  brief  period,  the  world  permits 
the  children  to  occupy  the  place  in  the  affairs  and 
thoughts  of  men  that  is  theirs  by  divine  right. 

In  the  birth  of  that  babe  in  Bethlehem,  the  Giver 
of  Life  placed  the  seal  of  his  highest  approval  upon 
childhood  and  decreed  that,  until  the  end  of  time, 
babies  should  be  the  true  rulers  of  mankind  and  the 
lawful  heirs  of  heaven.  And  it  is  so,  that  the  power 
of  Mary's  babe,  from  his  manger  cradle  throne,  has 
been  more  potent  on  earth  in  the  governments  of  men 
than  the  strength  of  many  emperors  with  their  armed 
hosts. 

It  is  written  large  in  Nature's  laws  that  mankind 
should  be  governed  by  love  of  children.  The  ruling 
purpose  and  passion  of  the  race  can  be,  with  safety, 
nothing  less  than  the  purpose  and  passion  of  all  cre 
ated  things — of  even  the  trees  and  plants — the  pur- 

217 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

pose  to  reproduce  its  kind — the  passion  for  its  off 
spring.  The  world  should  be  ruled  by  boys  and  girls. 

But  Mammon  has  usurped  the  throne  of  Life.  His 
hosts  have  trampled  the  banners  of  loyal  love  in  the 
dust.  His  forces  have  compelled  the  rightful  rulers 
of  the  world  to  abdicate.  But,  even  as  gross  ma 
terialism  has  never  succeeded  in  altogether  denying 
Divinity,  so,  for  a  few  days  each  year,  at  Christmas 
time,  childhood  asserts  its  claims  and  compels  man 
kind  to  render,  at  least  a  show,  of  homage. 

Poor,  blind,  deceived  and  betrayed,  old  world;  to 
so  fear  a  foolish  and  impotent  anarchism  that  spends 
its  strength  in  vain  railings  against  governments 
while  you  pay  highest  honors  and  present  your  choic 
est  favors  to  those  traitors  who  filch  your  wealth  of 
young  life  under  pretense  of  loyal  service.  The  real 
anarchists,  old  world,  are  not  those  who  loudly  vocif 
erate  to  the  rabble  on  the  street  corners  but  those 
who,  operating  under  the  laws  of  your  approval,  be 
tray  their  country  in  its  greatest  need — its  need  of 
children.  The  real  anarchists,  old  world,  are  those 
whose  banners  are  made  red  by  the  blood  of  babies; 
who  fatten  upon  the  labor  of  their  child  slaves; 
and  who  seek  to  rule  by  the  slaughter  of  children 
even  as  that  savage  of  old  whose  name  in  history  is 
hated  by  every  lover  of  the  race.  Regicides  at  heart, 

218 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

they  are,  for  they  kill,  for  a  price,  the  God  ordained 
rulers  of  mankind.  A  child  is  nearer,  by  many  years, 
to  God  than  the  grown  up  rebel  who  traitorously  holds 
his  own  mean  interests  superior  to  the  holy  will  of 
Life  as  vested  in  the  sacred  person  of  a  boy  or  girl. 

To  prate,  in  empty  swelling  words,  of  the  sacred- 
ness  of  life,  the  power  of  religion,  the  dignity  of 
state,  the  importance  of  commercial  interests  and 
the  natural  wealth  of  the  nation,  while  ignoring  the 
sacredness,  power,  dignity,  importance,  and  wealth 
of  childhood,  is  evidence  of  a  criminal  thoughtless 
ness. 

Childen  and  Life  are  one.  They  are  the  product, 
the  producers,  and  the  preservers  of  Life.  They  exalt 
Life.  They  interpret  Life.  Without  them  Life  has 
no  meaning.  The  child  is  no  more  the  possession  of 
its  parents  than  the  parents  are  the  property  of  the 
child.  Children  are  the  just  creditors  of  the  human 
race.  Mankind  owes  them  everything.  They  owe 
mankind  nothing.  A  baby  has  no  debts. 

Nor  is  the  passion  for  children  satisfied  only  in 
bearing  them.  A  woman  who  does  not  love  all  babies 
is  unsafe  to  trust  with  one  of  her  own  flesh.  A  man 
who  does  not  love  all  children  is  unfit  to  father  off 
spring  of  his  own  blood.  One  need  not  die  to  orphan 
a  child.  One  need  only  refuse  to  care  for  it.  One 

219 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

need  only  place  other  interests  first.  Men  and  women 
who  desire  to  become  parents  will  not  go  unsatisfied 
in  a  world  that  is  so  full  of  boys  and  girls  for  whom 
there  are  neither  fathers  nor  mothers. 

The  Master  of  Life  said:  "Except  ye  become  as 
little  children/'  His  false  disciple — world — teaches : 
"Except  ye  become  grown  up."  But  the  laws  of  Life 
are  irrevocable.  If  a  man,  heeding  the  world,  grows 
up  to  possess  the  earth,  his  holdings,  at  the  last,  are 
reduced — if  he  be  one  of  earth's  big  men — to  six  feet 
of  it,  only;  while  the  man  who  never  grows  up  in 
herits  a  heaven  that  the  false  kings  of  earth  know 
not. 

When  the  man  left  his  work,  at  close  of  the  day 
before  Christmas,  he  was  as  eager  as  he  had  been  that 
Saturday  when  he  faced  the  crisis  of  his  life.  With 
every  sense  keenly  alive,  he  plunged  into  the  throng 
of  belated  shoppers  that  filled  the  streets  and  crowded 
into  the  gaily  decked  stores  until  it  overflowed  into 
the  streets  again.  Nearly  everyone  was  carrying 
bundles  and  packages  for  it  was  too  late,  now,  to 
depend  upon  the  overworked  delivery  wagons.  In 
almost  every  face,  the  Christmas  gladness  shone.  In 
nearly  every  voice,  there  was  that  spirit  of  fellowship 
and  cheery  good  will  that  is  invoked  by  Christmas 
thoughts  and  plans.  Through  the  struggling  but  good 

220 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

natured  crowd,  the  man  worked  his  way  into  a  store 
and,  when  he  forced  his  way  out  again,  his  arms,  too, 
were  full.  For  a  moment  he  waited  on  the  corner  for 
a  car  then,  with  a  look  of  smiling  dismay  at  the 
number  of  people  who  were  also  waiting,  he  turned 
away,  determined  to  walk.  He  felt,  too,  that  the 
exercise  in  the  keen  air  would  be  a  relief  to  the 
buoyant  strength  and  gladness  that  clamored  for  ex 
pression. 

As  he  swung  so  easily  along  the  snowy  pavement, 
with  the  strength  of  his  splendid  manhood  revealed 
in  every  movement  and  the  cleanness  of  his  heart  and 
mind  illuminating  his  countenance,  there  were  many 
among  those  he  met  who,  while  they  smiled  in  sym 
pathy  with  his  spirit,  passed  from  their  smiles  to  half 
sighs  of  envy  and  regret. 

With  the  impatient  haste  of  a  boy,  the  man  dashed 
up  the  steps  of  his  boarding  house  and  ran  up  stairs 
to  his  room;  chuckling  in  triumph  over  his  escape 
from  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  little  daughter  of  the 
house.  For  the  first  time  since  his  boyhood  the  man 
was  to  have  the  blessed  privilege  of  sharing  the 
Christmas  cheer  of  a  home. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  over  and  it  was  time 
for  his  little  playmate  to  go  to  sleep,  he  retired  again 
to  his  room,  almost  as  excited,  in  his  eager  impatience 

221 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

for  the  morning,  as  the  child  herself.  Safe  behind 
his  closed  door,  he  began  to  unwrap  his  Christmas 
packages  and  parcels  that  he  might  inspect  again  his 
purchases  and  taste,  by  anticipation,  the  pleasure  he 
would  know  when  on  the  morrow  the  child  would 
discover  his  gifts.  Very  carefully  he  cut  the  strings 
from  the  last  and  largest  package  and,  tenderly  re 
moving  the  wrappings,  revealed  a  doll  almost  as  tall 
as  the  little  girl  herself.  It  was  as  large,  at  least,  as 
a  real  flesh  and  blood  baby. 

The  wifeless,  homeless,  man  who  has  never  pur 
chased  a  doll  for  some  little  child  mother  has  missed 
an  educational  experience  of  more  value  than  many  of 
the  things  that  are  put  in  text  books  to  make  men 
wise. 

Rather  awkwardly  the  man  held  the  big  doll  in  his 
arms,  smoothing  its  dress  and  watching  the  eyes  that 
opened  and  closed  so  lifelike;  cautiously  he  felt  for 
and  found  that  vital  spot  which  if  pressed  brought 
forth  a  startling:  "papa — mama." 

As  the  dear  familiar  words  of  childhood  sounded 
in  the  lonely  bachelor  room,  the  man  felt  a  queer 
something  grip  his  heart.  Tenderly  he  laid  the  doll 
upon  his  big  bed  and  stood  for  a  little  looking  down 
upon  it;  a  half -serious,  half-whimsical,  expression 
on  his  face  but  in  his  eyes  a  tender  light.  Then,  ad- 

222 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

justing  his  reading  lamp,  he  seated  himself  and  at 
tempted  to  busy  his  strangely  disturbed  mind  with  a 
book.  But  the  sentences  were  meaningless.  At  every 
period,  his  eyes  turned  to  that  little  figure  on  the  bed, 
with  its  too  lifelike  face  and  hair  and  form  while  the 
thoughts  of  the  author  he  was  trying  to  read  were 
crowded  out  by  other  thoughts  that  forced  themselves 
upon  him  with  a  persistency  and  strength  that  would 
not  be  denied. 

The  weeks  following  the  testing  of  the  man  had 
been  to  him  very  wonderful  weeks.  He  seemed  to  be 
living  in  a  new  world,  or,  rather,  for  him,  the  same 
old  world  was  wonderfully  enriched  and  glorified. 
Never  had  he  felt  his  manhood's  strength  stirring  so 
within  him.  Never  had  his  mind  been  so  alert,  his 
spirit  so  bold.  He  moved  among  men  with  a  new 
power  that  was  felt  by  all  who  came  in  touch  with 
him ;  though  no  one  knew  what  it  was.  He  was  con 
scious  of  a  fuller  mastery  of  his  work;  a  clearer 
grasp  of  the  world  events.  As  one,  climbing  in  the 
mountains,  reaches  a  point  higher  than  he  has  ever 
before  attained  and  gains  thus  a  wider  view  of  the 
path  he  has  traveled,  of  the  surrounding  country,  and 
of  the  peak  that  is  the  object  of  his  climb  as  well,  so 
this  man,  in  his  life  climb,  had  reached  a  higher  point 
and  therefore  gained  a  wider  outlook.  It  is  only 

223 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

when  men  stay  in  the  lowlands  of  self  interest  or 
abide  in  the  swamps  of  self  indulgence  that  their 
views  of  life  are  narrowly  circumscribed.  Let  a  man 
master  himself  but  once  and  he  stands  on  higher 
ground,  with  wider  outlook,  with  keener  vision,  and 
clearer  atmosphere. 

The  man  had  always  seen  Life  in  its  relation  to 
himself ;  he  came,  now,  to  consider  his  own  life  in  its 
relation  to  all  Life;  which  point  of  view  has  all  the 
difference  that  lies  between  a  low  valley  and  the 
mountain  peaks  that  shut  it  in.  He  felt  his  relation, 
too,  not  alone  to  all  human  life  but  to  all  created 
things.  With  everything  that  lived  he  felt  himself 
kin.  With  the  very  dray  horses  on  the  street,  drag 
ging  with  patient  courage  their  heavily  loaded  trucks ; 
with  the  stray  dog  that  dodged  in  and  out  among  the 
wheels  and  hoofs  of  the  crowded  traffic ;  even  with  the 
sparrow  that  perched  for  a  moment  on  the  ledge  out 
side  the  window  near  his  desk,  he  felt  a  kinship  that 
was  new  and  strange.  Had  they  not  all,  he  reflected, 
horse  and  dog  and  sparrow  and  man — had  they  not  all 
one  thing  in  common — Life  ?  Was  not  Life  the  one 
thing  supreme  to  each  ?  Were  they  not,  each  one,  a 
part  of  the  whole?  Was  not  the  supreme  object  of 
every  life,  of  all  life,  to  live  ?  Is  the  life  of  a  man, 
he  asked  himself,  more  mysterious  than  the  life  of  a 

224 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

horse  ?  Can  science — blind,  pretentious,  childish 
science — explain  the  life  of  a  dog  with  less  uncer 
tainty  than  it  can  explain  the  life  of  a  man  ?  Or  can 
the  scientist  make  a  laboratory  sparrow  more  easily 
than  he  can  produce  a  laboratory  man?  With  the 
very  trees  that  lined  the  streets  near  where  he  lived, 
he  felt  a  kinship  for  they,  too,  within  their  trunks 
and  limbs,  had  life — they,  too,  were  parts  of  the 
whole  even  as  he  was  a  part — they,  too,  belonged 
even  as  he  belonged. 

Thus  the  man  saw  Life  from  a  loftier  height  than 
he  had  ever  before  attained.  Thus  he  sensed,  as  never 
before,  the  bigness,  the  fullness,  the  grandness,  the 
awfulness,  of  Life.  And  so  the  man  became  very 
humble  with  a  proud  humbleness.  He  became  very 
proud  with  a  humble  pride.  He  became  even  as  a 
child  again. 

And  then,  standing  thus  upon  this  new  height  that 
he  had  gained,  the  man  looked  back  into  the  ages 
that  were  gone  and  forward  into  the  ages  that  were 
to  come  and  so  saw  himself  and  his  age  a  link  between 
the  past  and  the  future ;  linking  that  which  had  been 
to  that  which  was  to  be.  All  that  Life  had  ever  been 
— the  sum  of  all  since  the  unknown  beginning — was 
in  the  present.  In  the  present,  also,  was  all  that  Life 
could  ever  be,  even  unto  the  unknown  end.  Within 

225 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

his  age  and  within  himself  he  felt  stirring  all  the 
mighty  forces  that,  since  the  beginning,  had  wrought 
in  the  making  of  man.  Within  his  age  and  within 
himself  he  felt  the  forces  that  would  work  out  in  the 
race  results  as  far  beyond  his  present  vision  as  his 
age  was  beyond  the  ages  of  the  most  distant  past. 

Since  the  day  when  he  had  first  realized  his  man 
hood,  the  working  out  of  his  dreams  had  been  to  the 
man  the  supreme  object  of  his  life.  He  had  put  his 
life,  literally,  into  his  work.  For  his  work  he  had 
lived.  But  that  Christmas  eve,  when  his  mind  and 
heart  were  so  filled  with  thoughts  of  childhood  and 
those  new  emotions  were  aroused  within  him,  he  saw 
that  the  supreme  thing  in  his  life  must  be  Life 
itself.  He  saw  that  not  by  putting  his  life  into  his 
work,  would  he  most  truly  live,  but  by  making  his 
work  contribute  to  his  life.  He  realized  that  the 
greatest  achievements  of  man  are  but  factors  in  Life 
— that  the  one  supreme,  dominant,  compelling,  pur 
pose  of  Life  is  to  live — to  live — to  live — to  express 
itself  in  Life — that  the  only  adequate  expression  of 
Life  is  Life — that  the  passion  of  Life  is  to  pass  itself 
on — from  age  to  age,  from  generation  to  generation, 
in  a  thousand  thousand  forms,  in  a  thousand  thousand 
ages,  in  a  thousand  thousand  peoples,  Life  had  passed 
itself  on — was  even  then  passing  itself  on — seeking 

226 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

ever  fuller  expression  of  itself;  seeking  ever  to  per 
fect  itself;  seeking  ever  to  produce  itself.  He  saw 
that  the  things  that  men  do  come  out  of  their  lives 
even  as  the  plants  come  out  of  the  soil  into  which  the 
seed  is  dropped;  and,  that,  even  as  the  dead  and 
decaying  plant  goes  back  into  the  earth  from  which  it 
came,  to  enrich  and  renew  the  ground,  so  man's 
work,  that  comes  out  of  his  life,  is  reabsorbed  again 
into  his  life  to  enrich  and  renew  it.  He  realized, 
now,  that  the  object  of  his  life  must  be  not  his  work 
but  Life  itself — that  his  effort  must  be  not  to  do- 
but  to  be — that  he  must  accomplish  not  a  great  work 
but  a  great  Life. 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  man  should  come  to  see, 
also,  that  the  supreme  glory  of  his  manhood's 
strength  was  in  this:  the  reproduction  of  his  kind. 
The  man  life  that  ran  so  strongly  in  his  veins,  that 
throbbed  so  exultantly  in  his  splendid  body,  that 
thrilled  so  keenly  in  his  nerves — the  man  life  that 
he  had  from  his  parents  and  from  countless  gener 
ations  before — the  life  that  made  him  kin  to  all  his 
race  and  to  all  created  things — this  life  he  must  pass 
on.  This  was  the  supreme  glory  of  his  manhood : 
that  he  could  pass  it  on — that  he  could  give  it  to  the 
ages  that  were  to  come. 

From  the  heights  which  he  attained  that  Christmas. 
227 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

<eve,  the  man  laughed  at  the  empty,  swelling,  words 
of  those  who  talk  about  the  sacredness  of  work — who 
prattle  as  children  about  leaving  a  great  work  when 
they  are  gone — who  gibber  as  fools  about  contributing 
a  great  work  to  the  world. 

If  the  men  of  a  race  will  perfect  the  manhood 
strength  of  the  race ;  if  they  will  exalt  their  manhood 
power ;  if  they  will  fulfill  the  mission  of  life  by  per 
fecting  and  producing  ever  more  perfect  lives ;  if  they 
will  endeavor  to  contribute  to  the  ages  to  come 
stronger,  better,  men  than  themselves ;  why,  the  work 
of  the  world  will  be  done — even  as  the  plant  produces 
its  flowers  and  fruit,  the  work  of  the  world  will  be 
done.  In  the  exaltation  of  Life  is  the  remedy  for 
the  evils  that  threaten  the  race.  The  reformations 
that  men  are  always  attempting  in  the  social,  relig 
ious,  political,  and  industrial  world  are  but  attempts 
to  change  the  flavor  or  quality  of  the  fruit  when  it  is 
ripening  on  the  tree.  The  true  remedy  lies  in  the 
life  of  the  tree;  in  the  soil  from  which  it  springs; 
in  the  source  from  which  the  fruit  derives  its  quality 
and  flavor.  In  the  appreciation  of  Life,  in  the  pas 
sion  of  Life,  in  the  production  of  Life,  in  the  per 
fection  of  Life,  in  the  exaltation  of  Life,  is  the  salva 
tion  of  human  kind.  For  this,  and  this  alone,  man 


228 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

has  right  to  live — has  right  to  his  place  and  part  in 
Life. 

All  this  the  man  saw  that  Christmas  eve  because 
the  kiss  of  the  little  girl,  on  that  night  of  his  tempta 
tion,  had  awakened  something  in  his  manhood  that 
was  greater  than  the  dreams  he  had  been  denying 
himself  to  work  out.  The  friendship  of  the  child 
had  revealed  to  him  this  deeper  truth  of  Life;  that 
there  are,  for  all  true  men,  accomplishments  greater 
than  the  rewards  of  labor.  The  baby  had  taught 
him  that  the  legitimate  fruit  of  love  is  more  precious 
to  Life,  by  far,  than  the  wealth  and  honors  that  the 
world  bestows — that,  indeed,  the  greatest  wealth,  the 
highest  honors,  are  not  in  the  power  of  the  world  to 
give;  nor  are  they  to  be  won  by  toil.  In  his  think 
ing,  this  man,  too,  was  led  by  a  little  child. 

The  man's  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  knock 
at  his  door. 

It  was  the  little  girl's  mother;  to  tell  him,  as  she 
had  promised,  that  the  child  was  safely  asleep. 

With  his  arms  filled  with  presents,  the  man  went 
softly  down  the  stairs. 

When  all  had  been  arranged  for  the  morning,  the 
man  returned  again  to  his  room;  but  not  to  sleep. 
There  was  in  his  heart  a  feeling  of  reverent  pride  and 


229 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

gladness,  as  though  he  had  been  permitted  to  assist 
in  a  religious  rite,  and,  with  his  own  hands,  to  place 
an  offering  upon  a  sacred  altar.  And,  if  you  will 
understand  me,  the  man  was  right.  Whatever  else 
Christmas  has  come  to  mean  to  the  grown  up  world, 
its  true  meaning  can  be  nothing  less  than  this. 

ISTor  did  the  man  again  turn  to  his  book  or  attempt 
to  take  up  the  train  of  thought  that  had  so  interfered 
with  his  reading.  Something  more  compelling  than 
any  printed  page — something  more  insistant  than  his 
own  thoughts  of  Life  and  its  meaning — lured  him 
far  away  from  his  grown  up  days — took  him  back 
again  into  his  days  that  were  gone.  Alone  in  his 
room  that  Christmas  eve,  the  man  went  back,  once 
more,  to  his  Yesterdays — back  to  a  Christmas  in  his 
Yesterdays. 

Once  again,  his  boyhood  home  was  the  scene  of 
busy  preparations  for  the  Christmas  gaieties.  Once 
again,  the  boy,  tucked  snugly  under  the  buffalo  robe, 
drove  with  his  parents  away  through  the  white  fields 
to  the  distant  town  while  the  music  in  his  heart 
kept  time  to  the  melody  of  the  jingling  bells.  Once 
again,  he  experienced  the  happy  perplexity  of  select 
ing — with  mother's  help — a  present  for  father  while 
father  obligingly  went  to  see  a  man  on  business  and 
of  choosing — with  father's  assistance — a  gift  for 

230 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

mother  while  she  rested  in  a  far  corner  of  the  store. 
And  then,  once  again,  he  faced  the  trying  question: 
what  should  he  get  for  the  little  girl  who  lived  next 
door.  What,  indeed,  could  he  get  for  her  but  a  beau 
tiful  new  doll — one  with  brown  hair,  very  like  the 
little  girl's  own,  and  brown  eyes  that  opened  and 
closed  as  natural  as  life. 

The  next  day  the  boy  went,  with  his  father  and 
the  little  girl  and  her  uncle,  in  the  big  sleigh,  to  the 
woods  to  find  a  tree  for  the  Christmas  "exercises"  at 
the  church;  and,  in  the  afternoon,  in  company  with 
the  older  people,  helped  to  make  the  wreaths  of  ever 
green  and  deck  the  tree  with  glittering  tinsel ;  while 
the  little  girl  strung  long  strings  of  snowy  pop  corn 
and  labored  earnestly  at  the  sweet  task  of  filling 
mosquito  bar  stockings  with  candy  and  nuts. 

Then  came  that  triumphant  Christmas  eve,  when, 
before  the  assembled  Sunday  school  and  the  crowded 
church,  the  boy  took  part,  with  his  class,  in  the  enter 
tainment  and  sat,  with  wildly  beating  heart,  while 
the  little  girl,  all  alone,  sang  a  Christmas  carol ;  and 
proud  he  was,  indeed,  when  the  applause  for  the 
little  singer  was  so  long  and  loud.  And  then,  when 
the  farmer  Santa  Claus  had  distributed  the  last  stock 
ing  of  candy,  the  boy  and  the  girl,  with  their  elders, 
went  home  together,  in  the  clear  light  of  the  stars; 

231 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

while,  across  the  white  fields,  came  the  sound  of  gay 
laughter  and  happy  voices  mingled  with  the  ringing 
music  of  the  sleigh  bells — growing  fainter  and  fainter 
— as  friends  and  neighbors  went  their  several  ways. 

But,  best  of  all — by  far  the  best  of  all — was  that 
Christmas  morning  at  home.  At  the  first  hint  of 
gray  light  in  the  winter  sky,  the  boy  was  awake  and 
out  of  bed  to  gather  his  Christmas  harvest;  hailing 
each  toy  and  game  and  book  with  exclamations  of 
delight  and  arousing  all  the  house  with  his  shouts  of : 
"Merry  Christmas." 

The  foolish,  grown  up,  old  world  has  a  saying  that 
we  value  most  the  things  that  we  win  for  ourselves 
by  toil  and  hardship;  but,  believe  me,  it  is  not  so. 
The  real  treasures  of  earth  are  the  things  that  are 
won  by  the  toil  of  those  who  bring  to  us,  without 
price,  the  fruits  of  their  labor  as  tokens  of  their  love. 

Very  early,  that  long  ago  Christmas  morning,  the 
boy  went  over  to  the  little  girl's  house ;  for  his  happi 
ness  would  not  be  complete  until  he  could  share  it 
with  her.  And  the  man,  who,  alone  in  his  bachelor 
room  that  Christmas  eve,  dreamed  of  his  Yesterdays, 
saw  again,  with  startling  clearness,  his  boyhood  mate 
as  she  stood  in  the  doorway  greeting  him  with  shouts 
of,  "Merry  Christmas,"  as  he  went  toward  her 
through  the  snow;  and  the  heart  of  the  man  beat 

232 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

quicker  at  the  lovely  vision — even  as  the  heart  of  the 
boy — for  she  held,  close  in  her  little  mother  arms, 
the  new  addition  to  her  family  of  dolls — his  gift. 
The  lonely  man,  that  night,  realized,  as  he  had  never 
realized  before,  how  full,  at  that  moment,  was  the 
cup  of  the  boy's  proud  happiness.  He  realized  and 
understood. 

I  wonder — do  you,  also,  understand  ? 

In  the  still  house,  the  big  clock  in  the  lower  hall 
struck  the  hour.  The  man  in  his  lonely  room  listened, 
counting  the  strokes — nine — ten — eleven — twelve. 

It  was  Christmas. 


And  the  woman,  also,  when  she  had  passed  safely 
through  her  trial,  looked  out  upon  Life  from  a  point 
higher  than  she  had  ever  reached  before.  Never 
before  had  Life,  to  her,  looked  so  wide. 

But  the  woman  did  not  feel  stronger  after  the 
crisis  through  which  she  had  passed;  she  felt,  more 
keenly  than  before,  her  weakness.  More  than  ever, 
she  felt  the  need  of  a  strength  that  she  could  not 
find  within  herself.  More  than  ever,  she  was  afraid 
of  the  Life,  that,  from  where  she  now  stood,  seemed 
so  wide.  Nor  did  she  feel  a  kinship  with  all  Life. 
She  stood  on  higher  ground,  indeed,  but  the  wide- 

233 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

ness  of  the  view,  to  her,  only  emphasized  her  loneli 
ness.  She  sadly  felt  herself  as  one  apart — as  one 
denied  the  right  of  fellowship.  More  keenly  than 
ever  before,  she  felt,  in  the  heart  of  her  womanhood, 
the  humiliation  of  the  life  that  sets  a  price  upon  the 
things  of  womanhood  while  it  refuses  to  recognize 
womanhood  itself.  More  than  ever,  in  her  woman 
heart,  she  was  ashamed.  Neither  could  she  feel  that 
she  was  doing  her  part  in  Life — that  she  was  taking 
her  place — that  she  was  a  link  joining  the  ages  of  the 
past  to  the  ages  that  would  come.  She  felt  herself, 
rather,  a  parasite,  attached  to  Life — not  a  part  of — 
not  belonging  to — but  feeding  upon. 

This  woman  who  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman  saw, 
more  clearly  than  ever  before,  that  one  thing,  only, 
could  give  her  full  fellowship  with  the  race.  She 
saw  that  one  thing,  only,  could  make  her  a  link 
between  the  ages  that  were  gone  and  the  ages  that 
were  to  come.  That  one  thing,  only,  could  satisfy 
her  woman  heart — could  make  her  feel  that  she  was 
not  alone. 

That  one  thing  which  the  woman  recognized  as 
supreme  is  the  thing  which  the  Master  of  Life  has 
committed  peculiarly  to  womanhood.  ISTot  to 
woman's  skillful  hands;  not  to  her  ready  brain;  not 


234 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

to  the  things  of  her  womanhood  upon  which  the 
world  into  which  she  goes  alone  to  labor  puts  a  price 
has  the  Master  of  Life  committed  this  supreme 
thing;  but  to  her  womanhood — her  sex.  In  the 
womanhood  that  is  denied  by  the  world  that  receives 
womankind  alone,  is  wealth  that  may  not  be  bought 
by  any  price  that  the  world  can  pay.  In  the  woman 
hood  of  women  is  that  supreme  thing  without  which 
human  life  would  perish  from  the  earth.  The  exer 
cise  of  this  power  alone  can  give  to  woman  the  high 
place  in  Life  that  belongs  to  her  by  right  divine. 
The  woman  saw  that,  for  her,  all  other  work  in  the 
world  would  be  but  a  makeshift — a  substitute;  and, 
because  of  this,  while  Life  had,  never  before  seemed 
so  large,  she  had,  never  before  felt  so  small — so 
useless. 

But  still,  for  the  woman,  there  was  peace  in  her 
loneliness — there  was  a  peace  that  she  had  not  had 
before — there  was  a  calmness,  a  quietness,  that  was 
not  hers  before  her  trial.  It  was  the  peace  of  the 
lonely  mountain  top  to  which  one  climbs  from  out  a 
noisy,  clamoring,  village;  the  calmness  of  the  deep 
sky  uncrossed  by  cloud  or  marked  by  smoke  of  human 
industry ;  the  quietness  of  the  wide  prairie,  untouched 
by  man's  improvements.  And  this  tranquil  rest  was 


235 


THEIK  YESTEEDAYS 

hers  because  she  knew — deep  in  her  woman's  heart 
she  knew — that  she  had  done  well ;  that  she  had  not 
heen  untrue  to  the  soul  of  her  womanhood. 

The  woman  knew  that  she  had  done  well  because 
she  had  come  to  understand  that,  while  life  is  placed 
peculiarly  in  the  care  and  keeping  of  her  sex,  her 
sex  has  be^n  endowed,  for  the  protection,  perfection, 
and  perpetuation  of  Life,  with  peculiar  instincts. 
She  had  come  to  understand  that,  while  woman  has 
been  made  the  giver  and  guardian  of  Life,  she,  for 
that  reason,  is  subject  to  laws  that  are  not  to  be 
broken  save  with  immeasurable  loss  to  the  race.  To 
her  sex  is  given,  by  Life  itself,  the  divine  right  of 
selection  that  the  future  of  the  race  may  be  assured. 
To  her  sex  is  given  an  instinct  superior  to  reason 
that  her  choice  may  perfect  human  kind.  For  her, 
and  for  the  Life  of  her  kind,  there  is  the  law  that  if 
she  permits  aught  but  her  woman  instinct  to  influ 
ence  her  in  selecting  her  mate  her  children  and  the 
children  of  her  children  shall  mourn. 

In  the  crisis  of  her  life  the  woman  had  heard 
many  voices — bold  and  tempting,  pleading  and  subtle 
— urging  her  to  say:  "Yes."  But  always  her  in 
stinct — her  woman  heart — had  whispered:  "No. 
This  man  is  not  your  mate.  This  is  not  the  man  you 
would  choose  to  be  the  father  of  your  children. 

236 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Better,  far  better,  contribute  nothing  to  the  race  than 
break  the  law  of  your  womanhood.  Better,  far 
better,  never  cross  the  threshold  of  that  open  door 
than  cross  it  with  one  who,  in  your  heart  of  hearts 
you  know,  to  be  not  the  right  one." 

So  the  woman  had  peace.  Even  in  her  loneliness, 
she  had  peace — knowing  that  she  had  done  well. 

And  the  woman  tried,  now,  to  interest  herself  in 
the  things  that  so  many  of  the  women  of  her  day 
seemed  to  find  so  interesting.  She  listened  to  brave 
lectures  by  stalwart  women  on  woman's  place  and 
sphere  in  the  world's  work.  She  heard  bold  talks 
by  militant  women  about  woman's  emancipation  and 
freedom.  She  attended  lectures  by  intellectual 
women  on  the  higher  life,  and  the  new  thought,  and 
the  advanced  ideas.  She  read  pamphlets  and  books 
written  by  modern  women  on  the  work  of  women  in 
the  social,  political  and  industrial  fields.  She  be 
came  acquainted  with  many  "new"  women  who, 
striving  mightily  with  all  their  strength  of  body  and 
soul  for  careers,  looked  with  a  kind  of  lofty  disdain 
or  pitying  contempt  upon  those  old-fashioned  mothers 
whose  children  interfere  with  the  duty  that  "new" 
women  think  they  owe  the  world. 

But  this  woman  who  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman 
could  not  interest  herself  in  these  things  to  which 

237 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

she  tried  to  give  attention.  She  felt  that  in  giving 
herself  to  these  things  she  would  betray  Life.  She 
felt  the  hollowness,  the  shallowness,  the  emptyness  of 
it  all  in  comparison  with  that  which  is  divinely  com 
mitted  to  womankind.  She  could  not  but  wonder: 
what  would  be  the  racial  outcome?  When  women 
have  long  enough  substituted  other  ideals  for  the 
ideals  of  motherhood — other  passions  for  the  passions 
of  their  sex — other  ambitions  for  the  ambition  to  pro 
duce  and  to  perfect  Life — other  desires  for  the  desire 
to  keep  that  which  Life  has  committed  to  them — what 
then  ?  "How,"  she  asked  herself,  "would  the  world 
get  along  without  mothers  ?  Or  how  could  the  race 
advance  if  the  best  of  women  refused  to  bear  chil 
dren?"  And  then  came  the  inevitable  thought:  are 
the  best  women,  after  all,  refusing  to  bear  children  ? 
Might  it  not  be  that  the  wisdom  of  Mother  Nature 
is  in  this  also,  and  that  the  refusal  of  a  woman  to 
bear  children  is  the  best  evidence  in  the  world  that 
she  is  unfit  to  be  a  mother  ?  Is  it  not  better  that  the 
mothers  of  the  race  should  be  those  who  hold  no 
ideal,  ambition,  desire,  aim,  or  purpose  in  life  higher 
than  motherhood  ?  Such  women — such  mothers — 
have,  thus  far,  through  their  sons  and  daughters,  won 
every  victory  in  Life.  It  is  they  who  have  made 
every  advance  of  the  race  possible.  Will  it  not 

238 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

continue  to  be  so,  even  unto  the  end?  Is  not  this 
indeed  the  law  of  Life?  If  there  be  any  work  for 
women  greater  or  of  more  value  to  the  human  race 
than  the  work  of  motherhood  then,  indeed,  is  the 
end  of  the  world,  for  mankind,  at  hand. 

From  where  she  lay,  the  woman,  when  she  first 
awoke  that  Christmas  morning,  could  see  the  sun 
just  touching  the  topmost  branches  of  the  tall  trees 
that  grew  across  the  street. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day.  But  the  woman  did  not 
at  first  remember  that  it  was  Christmas.  Idly,  as 
one  sometimes  will  when  awakening  out  of  a  deep 
sleep,  she  looked  at  the  sunshine  on  the  trees  and 
thought  that  the  day  promised  to  be  clear  and  bright. 
Then,  looking  at  the  clock  in  the  chubby  arms  of  the 
fat  cupid  on  the  mantle,  she  noticed  the  time  with  a 
start  of  dismay.  She  must  arise  at  once  or  she  would 
be  late  to  her  work.  Why,  she  wondered,  had  not 
someone  called  her.  Then,  a  crumpled  sheet  of 
tissue  paper  and  a  bit  of  narrow  ribbon  on  the  floor, 
near  the  table,  caught  her  eye  and  she  remembered. 

It  was  Christmas. 

The  woman  dropped  back  upon  her  pillow.  She 
need  not  go  to  work  that  day.  She  had  not  been 
called  because  it  was  a  holiday.  Dully  she  told  her 
self  again  that  it  was  Christmas. 

239 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  There  were  no  bare 
feet  pattering  down  the  hall  to  see  what  Santa  Glaus 
had  left  from  his  pack.  ~No  exulting  shouts  had 
awakened  her.  In  the  rooms  below,  there  was  no 
cheerful  litter  of  toys  and  games  and  pop  corn  and 
candy  and  nuts  with  bits  of  string  and  crumpled 
paper  from  hastily  opened  parcels  and  shining  scraps 
of  tinsel  from  the  tree.  There  were  no  stockings 
hanging  on  the  mantle.  At  breakfast,  there  would  be 
a  few  friendly  gifts  and,  later,  the  postman  would 
bring  letters  and  cards  with  the  season's  greetings. 
That  was  all. 

The  sun,  climbing  higher  above  the  tall  buildings 
down  town,  peeped  through  the  window  and  saw 
the  woman  lying  very  still.  And  the  sun  must  have 
thought  that  the  woman  was  asleep  for  her  eyes  were 
closed  and  upon  her  face  there  was  the  wistful  smile 
of  a  child. 

But  the  woman  was  not  asleep  though  she  was 
dreaming.  She  had  escaped  from  the  silent,  childless, 
house  and  had  fled  far,  far,  away  to  a  land  of  golden 
memories.  She  had  gone  back  into  her  Yesterdays — 
to  a  Christmas  in  her  Yesterdays. 

Once  again  a  little  girl,  she  lived  those  happy, 
busy,  days  of  preparation  when  she  had  asked  herself 


240 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

a  thousand  times  each  day:  what  would  the  boy 
give  her  for  Christmas?  And  always,  as  she  won 
dered,  the  little  girl  had  tried  not  to  wish  that  it 
would  be  a  doll  lest  she  should  be  disappointed. 
And  always  she  was  unable  to  wish,  half  so  earnestly, 
for  anything  else.  Again  she  spent  the  hours  learn 
ing  the  song  that  she  was  to  sing  at  the  church  on 
Christmas  eve  and  wondered,  often,  if  he  would  like 
her  new  dress  that  mother  was  making  for  the 
occasion.  And  then,  as  the  day  drew  near,  there  was 
that  merry  trip  to  the  woods  to  bring  the  tree,  fol 
lowed  by  that  afternoon  at  the  church.  The  little  girl 
wondered,  that  night  of  the  entertainment,  if  the 
boy  guessed  how  frightened  she  was  for  him  lest  he 
forget  the  words  of  his  part ;  or,  when  she  was  sing 
ing  before  the  crowd  of  people  that  filled  the  church, 
did  he  know  that  she  saw  only  him  ?  And  then  the 
triumph — the  beautiful  triumph — of  that  Christmas 
morning ! 

The  little  girl  in  the  Yesterdays  needed  no  one  to 
remind  her  what  day  it  was.  As  soon  as  it  was 
light,  she  opened  her  eyes,  and,  wide  awake  in  an 
instant,  slipped  from  her  bed  to  steal  down  stairs 
while  th^  rest  of  the  household  still  slept.  And  there, 
in  the  gray  of  the  winter  morning,  she  found  his 


241 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

gift.  It  was  so  beautiful,  so  lifelike,  with  its  rosy 
cheeks  and  brown  hair  that,  almost,  the  little  girl  was 
afraid  that  she  was  not  awake  after  all;  and  she 
caught  her  breath  with  a  gasp  of  delight  when  she 
finally  convinced  herself  that  it  was  real.  She  knew 
that  it  was  from  the  boy — she  knew.  Quickly  she 
clasped  it  in  her  arms,  with  a  kiss  and  a  mother  hug ; 
and  then,  back  again  she  ran  to  her  warm  bed  lest 
dolly  catch  cold.  The  other  presents  could  wait  until 
it  was  really,  truly,  daylight  and  uncle  had  made  a 
fire ;  and  she  drew  the  covers  carefully  up  under  the 
dimpled  chin  of  her  treasure  that  lay  in  the  hollow 
of  her  arm,  close  to  her  own  soft  little  breast,  as 
natural  as  life — as  natural,  indeed,  as  the  mother  life 
that  throbbed  in  the  heart  of  the  little  girl. 

For  women  also  it  is  written :  "Except  ye  become 
as  little  children."  If  only  women  would  understand ! 

All  the  other  gifts  of  that  Christmas  time  were 
as  nothing  to  the  little  girl  beside  that  gift  from  the 
boy.  The  other  things  she  would  enjoy  all  the  more 
because  the  supreme  wish  of  her  heart  had  been 
granted;  but,  had  she  been  disappointed  in  that,  all 
else  would  have  had  little  power  to  please.  Under 
all  her  Christmas  pleasure  there  would  have  been  a 
longing  for  something  more.  Her  Christmas  would 


242 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

not  have  satisfied.  Her  cup  of  happiness  would  not 
have  been  full.  So,  all  the  treasures  that  the  world 
can  lay  at  woman's  feet  will  never  satisfy  if  the  one 
gift  be  lacking.  And  that  woman  who  has  felt  in  her 
arms  a  tiny  form  moulded  of  her  own  flesh — who  has 
drawn  close  to  her  breast  a  soft  little  cheek  and  felt 
upon  her  neck  the  touch  of  a  baby  hand — that  woman 
knows  that  I  put  down  the  truth  when  I  write  that 
those  women  who  deny  the  mother  instinct  of  their 
hearts  and,  for  social  position,  pleasure,  public  notice, 
wealth,  or  fame,  kill  their  love  for  children,  are  to 
be  pitied  above  all  creatures  for  they  deny  themselves 
the  heaven  that  is  their  inheritance. 

Eagerly,  that  morning,  the  little  girl  watched  for 
the  coming  of  the  boy  for  she  knew  that  he  would 
not  long  delay;  and,  when  she  saw  him  wading 
through  the  snow,  flung  open  wide  the  door  to  shout 
her  greeting  as  she  proudly  held  his  gift  close  to  her 
heart;  while  on  her  face  and  in  her  eyes  was  the 
light  divine.  And  great  fun  they  had,  that  Christ 
mas  day,  with  their  toys  and  games  and  books;  but 
never  for  long  was  the  new  doll  far  from  the  little 
girl's  arms.  'Nor  did  she  need  many  words  to  make 
her  happiness  in  his  gift  understood  to  the  boy. 

The  sun  was  shining  full  in  the  window  now; 


243 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

quite  determined  that  the  woman  should  sleep  no 
longer.  Regretfully,  as  one  who  has  little  heart  for 
the  day,  she  arose  just  as  footsteps  sounded  outside 
her  door.  Then  came  a  sharp  rap  upon  the  panel  and 
— "Merry  Christmas" — called  her  uncle's  hearty 
voice. 

Bravely  the  woman   who  knew  herself   to  be   a 
woman  answered:     "Merry  Christmas." 


244 


DEATH 

that   winter's    coat,    also,    began    to 
appear  thin  and  threadbare. 

By  looking  carefully,  one  could  see 
that  the  twigs  of  the  cherry  tree  were 
brightening  with  a  delicate  touch  of  fresh  color, 
while  the  tiny  tips  of  the  tender  green  buds  were 
cautiously  peeping  out  of  their  snug  wrappings  as  if 
to  ask  the  state  cf  the  weather.  In  the  orchard  and 
the  woods,  too,  the  Life  that  slept  deep  in  the  roots 
and  under  the  bark  of  trunks  and  limbs  was  begin 
ning  to  stir  as  though,  in  its  slumber,  it  heard  Spring 
knocking  at  its  bedroom  door. 

I  do  not  know  what  business  it  was  that  called  the 
man  to  a  neighboring  city.  The  particular  circum 
stances  that  made  the  journey  necessary  are  of  no 
importance  whatever  to  my  story.  The  important 
thing  is  this :  for  the  first  time  the  man  was  forced 
to  recognize,  in  his  own  life  and  in  his  work,  the 
fact  of  Death.  He  came  to  see  that,  in  the  most 
abundant  life,  Death  cannot  be  ignored.  Because 
Death  is  one  of  the  Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of 

245 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

Life,  tliis  is  my  story:  that  the  man  was  introduced 
to  Death. 

Hurriedly  he  arranged  for  his  absence,  and,  rush 
ing  home,  packed  a  few  necessities  of  travel  in  his 
grip,  snatched  a  hasty  dinner,  and  thus  reached  the 
depot  just  in  time  to  cat^K  the  evening  train.  He 
would  make  the  trip  in  the  night,  devote  the  follow 
ing  day  to  the  business  that  demanded  his  presence, 
and  the  next  night  would  return  to  his  home  city. 

The  Pullmans  were  well  filled,  mostly  with  busy, 
eager,  men  who,  like  himself,  were  traveling  at  night 
to  save  the  daylight  for  their  work.  But  the  man, 
perhaps  because  he  was  tired  with  the  labor  of  the 
day  or  because  he  wished  to  have  for  the  business  of 
the  morrow  a  clear,  vigorous,  brain,  made  no  effort  to 
find  acquaintances  who  might  be  on  the  train  or  to 
meet  congenial  strangers  with  whom  to  spend  a  pleas 
ant  hour.  When  he  had  read  the  evening  papers  and 
had  outlined  in  his  mind  a  plan  of  operation  to  meet 
the  situation  that  compelled  him  to  make  the  hurried 
trip,  he  retired  to  his  berth. 

The  low,  monotonous,  hum  of  the  flying  wheels  on 
the  heavy  steel  rails ;  the  steady,  easy,  motion  of  the 
express  as  it  flew  over  the  miles  of  well  ballasted 
track ;  the  dim  light  of  the  curtained  berth,  and  the 
quiet  of  the  Pullman,  soon  lulled  the  tired  traveler  to 

246 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

sleep.  Mile  after  mile  and  mile  after  mile  was 
marked  off,  with  the  steady  regularity  of  time  itself, 
by  the  splendidly  equipped  train  as  it  rushed  through 
the  darkness  with  its  sleeping  passengers.  Hamlets, 
villages,  way  stations,  signal  towers,  were  passed 
with  flash  like  quickness;  while  the  veteran  in  the 
engine  cab,  with  the  schooling  of  thirty  years  in  the 
hand  that  rested  on  the  throttle,  gazed  steadily  ahead 
to  catch,  with  quick  eye  and  clear  brain,  the  messages 
of  the  signal  lamps  that,  like  bright  colored  dots  of  a 
secret  code,  appeared  on  the  black  sheet  of  night. 

With  a  suddenness  that  defies  description,  the 
change  came. 

The  trained  eyes  that  looked  from  the  cab  window 
read  a  message  from  Death  in  the  night  ahead.  In 
the  fractional  part  of  a  second,  the  hand  on  the 
throttle  responded,  doing  in  flash  like  movements 
all  that  the  thirty  years  had  taught  it  to  do.  There 
was  a  frightful  jarring,  jolting  crash  of  grinding, 
screaming,  brakes,  followed  on  the  instant  by  a  roar 
ing,  smashing,  thundering,  rending  of  iron  and  steel 
and  wood. 

The  veteran,  whose  eye  and  brain  and  hand  had 
been  thirty  years  in  service,  lay  under  his  engine, 
a  mangled,  inanimate  mass  of  flesh.  His  fireman, 
who  had  looked  forward  to  a  place  on  the  engineer's 

247 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

side  of  a  cab  as  a  young  soldier  dreams  of  sword 
and  shoulder  straps,  lay  still  beside  his  chief.  From 
the  wrecked  coaches,  above  the  sound  of  hissing  steam 
and  crackling  flames,  came  groans  and  shrieks  and 
screams  of  tortured  men  and  women  and  children. 

Then,  quickly,  the  hatless,  coatless,  and  half 
dressed  forms  of  the  more  fortunate  ones  ran  here 
and  there.  Voices  were  heard  calling  and  answering. 
There  were  oaths  and  prayers  and  curses  mingled 
with  sharp  spoken  commands  and  the  sound  of  axef 
and  saws  and  sledges,  as  the  men,  who  a  few  minute* 
before  were  sleeping  soundly  in  their  berths,  toiled 
with  superhuman  energy  to  free  their  fellows  from 
that  horrid  hell. 

To  the  man  who  had  escaped  from  the  trap  of 
death  that  had  caught  so  many  of  his  fellow  passen 
gers  and  who  toiled  now  with  the  strength  of  a  giant 
among  the  rescuers,  it  all  seemed  a  dream  of  terror 
from  which  he  must  presently  awake.  He  did  not 
think,  then,  of  the  Death  that  had  come  so  close  while 
he  slept.  He  was  not  conscious  of  the  danger  that  had 
threatened  him.  He  did  not  feel  gratitude  for  hia 
escape.  He  could  not  think.  He  could  only  strive 
madly,  with  the  strength  of  despair,  in  the  fight  to 
snatch  others  from  the  grip  of  an  awful  fate ;  and,  as 
he  fought,  he  prayed  to  be  awakened  from  his  dream. 

248 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

It  was  over  at  last. 

Hours  later,  the  man  reached  his  destination,  and 
still,  because  his  business  was  so  urgent,  there  was 
no  time  for  him  to  think  of  the  Death  that  had  come 
so  close.  Rarely  does  the  business  of  life  give  men 
time  to  think  of  the  Death  that  stands  never  far  away. 
But,  when  his  work  was  finished  and  he  was  again 
aboard  the  train,  on  his  way  home,  there  was  oppor 
tunity  for  a  fuller  realization  of  the  danger  through 
which  he  had  passed  so  narrowly — there  was  time  to 
think.  Then  it  was  that  the  man  realized  a  new 
thing  in  his  life.  Then  it  was  that  a  new  factor 
entered  into  his  thinking — Death.  Not  the  knowl 
edge  of  Death;  he  had  always  had  that  of  course. 
"Not  the  fear  of  Death;  this  man  was  no  coward. 
But  the  fact  of  Death — it  was  the  fact  of  Death  that 
he  realized  now  as  he  had  never  realized  it  before. 

All  unexpected  and  unannounced — without  sign  of 
its  approach  or  warning  of  its  presence — Death  had 
stood  over  him.  He  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the 
King.  Death  had  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  as 
it  were,  and  had  passed  on.  But  Death  would  come 
again.  The  one  firmly  fixed,  undeniable,  unalterable, 
fact  in  Life  was,  to  him,  now,  that  Death  would  come 
again.  When  or  how ;  that,  he  could  not  know ;  per 
haps  not  for  many  years ;  perhaps  before  the  flying 

249 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

train  could  carry  him  another  mile.  How  strange 
it  is  that  this  one  fixed,  permanent,  unalterable,  in 
evitable  fact  of  Life — Death — is  most  commonly 
ignored.  The  most  common  thing  in  Life  is  Death; 
yet  few  there  are  who  recognize  it  as  a  fact  until  it 
presents  itself  saying:  "Come." 

Going  back  into  the  years,  the  man  recalled  the 
death  of  his  mother ;  and,  later,  when  he  was  standing 
on  the  very  threshold  of  his  manhood,  the  death  of 
his  father.  Those  graves  on  the  hillside  were  still  in 
his  memory  but  they  had  not  realized  Death  for  him. 
His  grief  at  the  loss  of  those  so  dear  to  him  had 
overshadowed,  as  it  were,  the  fact  of  Death  itself. 
He  thought  of  Death  only  as  it  had  taken  his  parents ; 
he  did  not  consider  it  in  thinking  of  himself.  But 
now — now — he  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  King. 
He  had  felt  the  touch  of  the  hand  that  chills.  He 
had  heard  the  voice  that  cannot  be  disobeyed.  Death 
had  come  into  his  life  a  fact. 

The  low,  steady,  hum  and  whirr  of  the  wheels  and 
the  smooth,  easy  movement  of  the  train  told  him  of 
the  flying  miles.  One  by  one,  those  miles  that  lay 
between  him  and  the  end  of  his  journey  would  go 
until  the  last  was  gone  and  he  would  step  from  the 
coach  to  the  platform  of  his  home  depot.  And,  then, 
all  suddenly,  to  the  man,  those  flying  miles  became 

250 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

as  the  years  of  his  life.  Even  as  the  miles  of  his 
journey  were  passing  so  his  years  had  gone — so  his 
years  were  going  and  would  go. 

The  man  was  a  young  man  still.  For  the  first 
time,  he  felt  himself  growing  old.  Involuntarily  he 
looked  at  his  hands ;  firm,  strong,  young  hands  they 
were,  but  the  man,  in  his  fancy,  saw  them  shaking, 
withered,  and  parched,  with  prominent  dull  blue 
veins,  and  the  skinny  fingers  bent  and  crooked  with 
the  years.  He  glanced  down  at  his  powerful,  full 
moulded  limbs,  and,  in  fancy,  saw  them  thin  and 
shrunken  with  age.  And,  suddenly,  he  remembered 
with  a  start  that  the  next  day  would  be  his  birth 
day.  In  the  fullness  of  his  young  manhood's 
strength,  he  had  ignored  the  passing  years  even 
as  he  had  ignored  Death.  As  he  had  learned  to 
forget  Death,  he  had  learned  to  forget  his  birthdays. 
It  was  strange  how  fast  the  years  were  going,  thought 
the  man.  Scarcely  would  there  be  time  for  the  work 
ing  out  of  his  dreams.  And,  once,  it  had  been  such 
a  long,  long,  time  between  his  birthdays.  Once,  he 
had  counted  the  months,  then  the  weeks,  then  the 
days  that  lay  between.  Once,  he  remembered 

Perhaps  it  was  the  thought  of  his  birthday  that  did 
it ;  perhaps  it  was  the  memory  of  those  graves  in  the 
old  cemetery  at  home.  Whatever  it  was,  the  man 

251 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

slipped  back  into  his  Yesterdays  when  birthdays 
were  ages  and  ages  apart  and,  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world,  the  boy  wanted  to  grow  up. 

At  seven,  he  had  looked  with  envy  upon  the  boy  of 
nine  while  the  years  of  grown  up  men  were  beyond 
his  comprehension.  At  nine,  fifteen  was  the  daring 
limit  of  his  dreams;  so  far  away  it  seemed  that 
scarcely  he  hoped  to  reach  it.  As  for  eighteen — one 
must  be  very,  very,  old,  indeed,  to  be  eighteen.  How 
long  the  years  ahead  had  seemed,  then — and  now, 
how  short  they  were  when  looking  back!  And  the 
birthdays — the  birthdays  that  the  man  had  learned 
to  forget — how  could  he  have  learned  to  forget  them ! 
What  days  of  triumph — what  times  of  victorious 
rejoicing — those  days  once  had  been!  And  so,  with 
the  fact  of  Death  so  recently  forced  into  his  life, 
with  the  miles  as  years  slipping  under  the  fast 
whirring  wheels  that  bore  him  onward,  the  man  lived 
again  a  birthday  in  the  long  ago. 

Weeks  before  that  day  the  boy  had  planned  the 
joyous  occasion,  for  mother  had  promised  that  he 
should  have  a  party.  A  birthday  party!  Joyous 
festival  of  the  Yesterdays!  What  delightful  hours 
were  spent  in  anticipation!  What  innumerable 
questions  were  asked !  What  a  multitude  of  petitions 
were  formed  and  presented !  What  anxious  consulta- 

252 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

tions  with  the  little  girl  who  lived  next  door !  What 
suggestions  were  offered,  accepted  and  rejected,  and 
rejected  or  accepted  all  over  again !  What  lists  of  the 
guests  to  be  invited  were  made,  revised  and  then 
revised  again!  What  counting  of  the  days,  and,  as 
the  day  drew  near,  what  counting  of  the  hours ;  not 
forgetting,  all  the  time,  to  hint,  in  various  skillfully 
persuasive  and  suggestive  ways,  as  to  the  presents  that 
would  be  most  fitting  and  acceptable !  And  at  last, 
when  the  day  had  come,  as  all  days  must  at  last  come, 
was  there  ever  in  the  history  of  mortal  man  or  boy 
such  a  day  ? 

There  was  real  wealth  of  love  in  mother's  kiss  that 
morning.  There  was  holy  pleasure  in  the  pride  that 
was  in  father's  face  and  voice.  There  was  unmarred 
joy  when  the  little  girl  captured  him  and,  while  he 
pretended — only  pretended — to  escape,  gave  him  the 
required  number  of  thumps  on  the  back  with  her 
soft  little  fist  and  the  triumphant  "one  to  grow  on." 
Then  came,  at  last,  the  crowning  event:  and  so  the 
man  saw,  again,  the  boys  and  girls  who,  that  after 
noon  in  his  Yesterdays,  helped  to  celebrate  his  birth 
day.  Why  had  he  permitted  them  to  pass  out  of  his 
life?  Why  had  he  gone  out  of  their  lives?  Why 
must  the  years  rob  him  of  the  friends  of  the  Yester 
days? 

253 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

With  the  birthday  feast  of  good  things  and  the 
games  and  sports  of  childhood  the  busy  afternoon 
passed.  Up  and  down  the  road  and  across  the  fields, 
the  guests  departed,  with  their  party  dresses  soiled, 
their  party  combed  hair  disheveled,  and  their  party 
cleaned  faces  smudged  with  grime;  but  with  the 
clean,  clean,  joy  of  the  Yesterdays  in  their  clean, 
clean,  childish  hearts.  Together  the  boy  and  the  girl 
watched  them  go,  with  waving  hands  and  good-bye 
shouts,  until  the  last  one  had  passed  from  sight  and 
the  last  whoop  and  call  had  died  away.  And  then, 
reluctantly,  the  little  girl  herself  went  home  and  the 
boy  was  left  alone  by  the  garden  hedge. 

Oh,  brave,  brave,  day  of  the  Yesterdays !  Brave 
birthdays  of  the  long  ago  when  Death  was  not  a  fact 
but  a  fiction!  When  the  years  were  ages  apart,  and 
the  farthest  reach  of  one's  imagination  carried  only 
to  being  grown  up ! 

From  his  Yesterdays  the  man  came  back  to  won 
der:  if  Death  should  wait  until  he  was  wrinkled, 
bent,  and  old — until  his  limbs  were  palsied,  his  hear 
ing  gone,  his  voice  cracked  and  shrill,  and  his  eyes 
dim — if  Death  should  let  him  stay  until  he  had  seen 
the  last  of  his  companions  go  home  in  the  evening 
after  that  last  birthday — would  there  be  one  to  stand 
beside  him — to  watch  with  him  as  the  others  passed 

254 


THEIE  YESTEBDAYS 

from  sight  ?  Would  there  be  anyone  to  help  him 
celebrate  his  last  birthday,  if  Death  should  fail  to 
come  again  until  he  was  old  ? 


Everyone  was  very  kind  to  the  woman  that  morn 
ing  when  the  word  came  that  her  uncle  had  been 
killed  in  a  railroad  accident.  All  that  kind  hearts 
could  do  for  her  was  done.  Every  offer  of  assistance 
was  made.  But  there  was  really  nothing  that  anyone 
could  do  just  then.  She  must  first  go  as  quickly  as 
she  could  to  her  aunt. 

The  man  of  authority,  who  had  always  seemed  to 
understand  her  woman  heart  and  who  had  paid  to 
her  the  highest  tribute  possible  for  a  man  to  pay  a 
woman,  had  broken  the  news  to  her  as  gently  as  news 
of  Death  can  be  told,  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  ready, 
his  own  carriage  was  waiting  before  the  entrance  in 
the  street  below.  Nor  did  he  burden  her  with  talk 
as  they  were  driven  skillfully  through  the  stream  of 
the  down  town  traffic  and  then,  at  a  quicker  pace, 
through  the  more  open  streets  of  the  residence  dis 
trict. 

There  is  so  little  that  can  be  said,  even  by  the  most 
thoughtful,  when  Death  enters  thus  suddenly  into  a 
life.  The  man  knew  that  the  woman  needed  him. 

255 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

He  knew  that,  save  for  the  invalid  aunt,  there  was 
now  no  near  relative  to  help  her  do  the  necessary 
things  that  must  be  done.  There  was  no  one  to  help 
her  think  what  would  be  best  to  do.  So  he  asked  her 
gently,  as  they  neared  the  house,  if  she  would  not 
permit  him,  for  the  next  few  days,  to  take  the  place 
in  her  life  that  would  have  been  taken  by  an  older 
brother.  Kindly  he  asked  that  she  trust  him  fully — 
that  she  let  him  think  and  do  for  her — be  a  help  to 
her  in  her  need — even  as  he  would  have  helped  her 
had  she  consented  to  come  into  his  life  as  he  wished 
her  to  come.  And  the  woman,  because  she  knew  the 
goodness  and  honor  of  this  man's  heart,  thanked  him 
with  gratitude  too  great  for  words  and  permitted 
him  to  do  for  her  all  that  a  most  intimate  relative 
would  have  done. 

At  last  it  was  over.  The  first  uncontrollable  ex 
pressions  of  grief — the  arrangements  for  the  funeral 
— the  service  at  the  house  and  the  long  ride  to  the 
cemetery  with  the  final  parting  and  the  return  to  the 
house  that  would  never  again  be  quite  the  same — all 
those  hard,  first,  days  were  past  and  to-morrow — 
to-morrow — the  woman  would  go  back  to  her  work. 
In  the  final  going  over  of  affairs,  the  finishing  of 
unfinished  business,  the  ending  of  undeveloped  plans 
and  prospects,  the  settling  and  closing  of  accounts, 

256 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

and  the  considering  of  new  conditions  enforced  by 
Death,  it  had  been  made  very  clear  that  for  the 
woman  to  work  was,  now,  more  than  ever  necessary. 
There  was,  now,  no  one  but  her  upon  whom  the 
invalid  aunt  could  depend  for  even  the  necessities 
of  life. 

And  the  woman  was  glad  that  she  was  able  to 
provide  for  that  one  who  had  always  been  so  gentle,  so 
patient,  in  suffering  and  who,  in  her  sorrow,  was  now 
so  brave.  Since  the  death  of  the  girl's  own  mother, 
the  aunt  had  taken,  so  far  as  she  could,  a  mother's 
place  in  the  life  of  the  child ;  and,  as  the  years  had 
passed  and  the  little  girl  had  grown  into  young 
womanhood,  she  had  grown  into  the  heart  of  the 
childless  woman  until  she  was  as  a  daughter  of  her 
own  flesh.  So  the  woman  did  not  feel  this  added  care 
that  was  forced  upon  her  by  the  changed  conditions  as 
a  burden  other  than  a  burden  of  love.  But  still,  that 
afternoon,  when  it  was  all  over,  and  she  faced  the  new 
future  that  Death  had  set  before  her,  she  realized  the 
fact  of  Death  as  she  had  never  realized  it  before. 

The  years  since  her  mother's  death  had  not  been 
many,  and,  it  seemed  to  her,  now,  that  they  had 
passed  very  quickly.  She  was  only  a  little  girl,  then, 
and  her  uncle  and  his  wife  had  taken  her  so  fully 
into  their  hearts  that  she  had  scarcely  felt  the  gap  in 

257 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

her  life  after  the  first  weeks  of  the  separation  had 
passed.  Her  mother  belonged  to  the  days  of  her 
childhood  and,  though  the  years  were  not  many  as 
she  looked  back,  those  childhood  days  seemed  far,  far, 
away.  Death  had  come  to  her,  now,  in  the  days  of 
her  womanhood.  Suddenly,  unexpectedly,  with 
awful,  startling,  reality,  the  fact  of  Death  had  come 
into  her  life ;  forcing  her  to  consider,  as  she  had  never 
considered  before,  the  swiftly  passing  years. 

What — she  asked  herself  as  she  thought  of  the 
morrow — what,  for  her,  lay  at  the  farthermost  end 
of  that  procession  of  to-morrows  ?  When  the  best  of 
her  strength  was  gone  with  the  days  and  weeks  and 
months  and  years — what  then  ?  When  Death  should 
come  for  that  one  who  was,  in  everything  but  blood, 
her  mother  and  who  was,  now,  her  only  companion — 
what  then?  To  be  left  alone  in  the  world — to  go, 
alone,  all  the  rest  of  the  journey — this  was  the  hor 
ror  that  Death  brought  to  her.  As  she  looked,  that 
afternoon,  into  the  years  that  were  to  come,  this 
woman,  who  knew  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  who 
was  still  in  the  glory  and  beauty  of  her  young 
womanhood,  felt  suddenly  old — she  felt  as  though 
every  day  of  the  sad  days  just  passed  had  been  a  year. 

And  then,  at  last,  from  her  grief  of  the  present 
and  from  her  contemplation  of  the  years  that  were 

258 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

to  come,  she  turned  wearily  back  to  the  long  ago. 
In  the  loneliness  and  sorrow  of  her  life  she  went, 
again,  back  into  her  Yesterdays.  There  was,  indeed, 
no  other  place  for  her  to  go  but  back  into  her  Yester 
days.  Only  in  the  Yesterdays  can  one  escape  the 
sadness  and  loneliness  that  attend  the  coming  of 
Death.  Death  has  little  power  in  the  Yesterdays. 
In  childhood  life,  Death  is  not  a  fact. 

Funerals  were  nothing  more  than  events  of  sur 
passing  interest  in  those  days — a  subdued,  intense, 
interest  that  must  not  be  too  openly  expressed,  it  is 
true,  but  that  nevertheless  could  not  be  altogether 
suppressed.  Absorbed  in  her  play  the  little  girl 
would  hear,  suddenly,  the  ringing  of  the  bell  in  the 
white  church  across  the  valley;  and  it  would  ring, 
not  joyously,  cheerily,  interestingly,  as  on  Sundays 
but  with  sad,  solemn,  measured,  notes,  that  would  fill 
her  childish  heart  with  hushed  excitement.  And  then 
— it  mattered  not  where  he  was  or  what  he  was  doing 
— the  little  boy  would  come,  rushing  with  eager  haste, 
to  join  her  at  the  front  gate  where  they  always 
watched  together  for  the  procession  and  strove  for 
the  honor  of  sighting  first  the  long  string  of  vehicles 
that  would  soon  appear  on  one  of  the  four  roads 
leading  to  the  church.  And  oh,  joy  of  joys,  if  it  so 
happened  that  the  procession  came  by  the  way  that  led 

259 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

past  the  place  where  they  danced  with  such  eager 
impatience ! 

First  would  come,  moving  with  slow  feet  and 
drooping  head,  the  old  gray  horse  and  time  worn 
phaeton  of  the  minister ;  and  they  would  feel  a  little 
strange  and  somewhat  hurt  because  the  man  of  God, 
who  usually  greeted  them  so  cheerily,  would  not 
notice  them  as  he  passed.  But  the  sadness  in  their 
hearts  would  be  forgotten  the  next  moment  as  they 
gazed,  with  excited  interest  and  whispered  exclama 
tions,  at  the  shining,  black,  hearse  with  its  beautiful, 
coal  black,  horses  that,  stepping  proudly,  tossing  their 
plumed  heads,  and  shaking  the  tassels  on  the  long  nets 
that  hung  over  their  glossy  sides,  seemed  to  invite 
the  admiration  that  greeted  them.  And  then,  through 
the  glass  sides  of  the  hearse,  the  boy  and  the  girl, 
with  gasps  of  interest,  would  discover  the  long  black 
coffin  half  hidden  by  its  load  of  flowers ;  or,  perhaps, 
the  hearse,  the  horses,  and  the  coffin,  would  all  be 
snow  white  which,  the  little  girl  thought,  was 
prettiest  of  all.  Then  would  follow  the  long  line  of 
carriages,  filled  with  people  who  wore  their  Sunday 
clothes ;  and  the  boy  and  the  girl,  recognizing  a  friend 
or  acquaintance,  here  and  there,  would  wonder  to 
themselves  how  it  would  seem  to  be  riding  in  such  a 
procession.  One  by  one,  they  would  count  the 

260 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

vehicles  and  recall  the  number  in  the  last  funeral 
they  had  watched ;  gleefully  triumphant,  if  this  pro 
cession  were  longer  than  the  last;  scornfully  disap 
pointed,  if  it  were  not  so  imposing.  And  then,  when 
the  last  carriage  had  gone  up  the  hill  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek  and  had  disappeared  from  sight 
among  the  trees  that  half  hid  the  church,  they  would 
wait  for  the  procession  to  reappear  after  the  services 
and  would  watch  it  crawling  slowly  along  the  distant 
road  on  its  way  to  the  cemetery. 

And  the  next  day  they  would  play  a  funeral. 

Even  as  they  had  played  a  wedding,  they  would 
play  a  funeral.  Only,  they  played  a  wedding  but 
that  once,  while  they  played  funerals  many,  many, 
times. 

Sometimes  it  would  be  a  doll's  funeral  when  the 
chief  figure  in  the  solemn  rites  would  be  taken  from 
the  grave,  after  it  was  all  over,  and  would  be  rocked 
to  sleep  with  the  other  dollies,  none  the  worse,  appar 
ently,  for  the  sad  experience.  Again,  the  part  of  the 
departed  would  be  taken  by  a  mouse  that  had  met  a 
violent  death  at  the  hands  of  the  cook;  or,  perhaps, 
they  would  find  a  baby  bird  that  had  fallen  from  its 
nest  before  its  wings  were  strong.  But  the  grandest, 
most  triumphant,  most  successful  funeral  of  the  Yes 
terdays  was  a  kitten  that  had  most  opportunely  died 

261 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

the  very  day  a  real  grown  up  funeral  had  passed  the 
house.  What  a  funeral  that  was — with  an  old  shoe 
box  for  a  coffin,  the  boy's  wagon  draped  with  pieces 
of  black  cloth  borrowed  from  the  rag  bag  for  a 
hearse,  the  shepherd  dog  for  a  proudly  stepping  team, 
and  all  the  dolls  in  their  carriage  following  slowly 
behind !  In  a  corner  of  the  garden,  not  far  from  the 
cherry  tree,  they  dug  a  real  grave  and  set  up  a  real 
tombstone,  fashioned  by  the  boy,  to  mark  the  spot. 
And  the  little  girl  was  so  earnest  in  her  sorrow  that 
she  cried  real  tears  at  which  the  boy  became,  sud 
denly,  very  gay  and  boisterous,  as  boys  will  upon 
such  occasions,  and  helped  her  to  forget  right  quickly. 

Oh,  boy  of  the  Yesterdays,  who  would  not  let  his 
little  girl  mate  grieve  but  made  her  laugh  and  forget ! 
Where  was  he  now?  The  woman  wondered.  Had 
Death  come  into  his  life,  too  ?  Were  the  years  ever, 
to  him,  as  a  funeral  procession?  Did  ever  he  feel 
that  he  was  growing  old  ?  Could  he,  now,  make  her 
forget  her  grief — could  he  help  her  to  laugh  again — 
or  had  his  power  gone  even  as  those  Yesterdays  when 
Death,  too,  was  only  a  pleasing  game  ? 

From  the  next  room,  a  gentle  voice  called  softly 
and  the  woman  arose  to  go  to  her  aunt.  For  that 
one  who  was  left  dependent  upon  her  she  would  be 


262 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

brave  and  strong — she  would  go  back  to  her  work  In 
the  morning. 

Only  children  are  privileged  to  play  with  the  fact 
of  Death.  Only  in  the  Yesterdays  are  funerals  events 
of  merely  passing  interest.  Only  in  the  Yesterdays 
does  Death  go  always  past  the  door. 


263 


FAILURE 

that  year,  also,  went  to  join  the  years 
of  the  Yesterdays. 

It  is  as  though  Life,  bringing  to  man 
every  twelve  months  a  new  year,  bids 
him  try  again.  Always,  it  is  necessary  for  man  to 
try  again.  Indeed  Life  itself  is  nothing  less  than 
this:  a  continual  trying  again. 

In  the  world  laboratory,  mankind  is  conducting  a 
series  of  elaborate  experiments — always  on  the  verge 
of  the  great  discovery  but  never  quite  making  it — 
always  thinking  that  the  secret  is  about  to  be  re 
vealed  but  never  quite  uncovering  it — always  failing 
in  his  experiments  but  always  finding  in  the  process 
something  that  leads  him,  with  hope  renewed,  to  try 
again. 

The  man  had  failed. 

Sadly,  sternly,  with  the  passing  of  the  year,  he 
admitted  to  himself  that  he  had  failed.  Humiliated 
and  ashamed,  with  the  coming  of  the  new  year,  he 
admitted  that  he  must  begin  again.  Bitterly  he  called 
himself  a  fool.  And  perhaps  he  was — more  or  less. 

264 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

Most  men  are  a  little  foolish.  The  man  who  has 
never  been  forced  to  swallow  his  own  folly  has  missed 
a  bitter  but  wholesome  tonic  that,  more  than  likely, 
he  needs.  This  man  was  not  the  kind  of  a  man  who 
would  blame  any  one  but  himself  for  his  failure.  If 
he  had  been  that  particular  kind  of  a  fool  his  failure 
would  have  been  of  little  value  either  to  him  or  to 
any  one.  Neither  would  there  be,  for  me,  a  story. 

I  do  not  know  the  particulars  of  this  man's  fail 
ure — neither  the  what,  the  why,  nor  the  how.  I 
know  only  that  he  failed — that  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  fail.  Nor  is  this  a  story  of  such  particulars 
for  they  are  of  little  importance.  A  man  can  fail 
in  anything.  Some,  even,  seem  to  fail  in  everything. 
This,  therefore,  is  my  story:  that  as  Failure  enters 
into  the  life  of  every  man  it  came  into  the  life  of  this 
man.  In  some  guise  or  other  Failure  seems  to  be  a 
necessity.  It  is  one  of  the  Thirteen  Truly  Great 
Things  of  Life.  But  the  man  did  not,  at  that  time, 
understand  that  his  failure  was  a  necessity.  That 
understanding  came  to  him  only  with  Success. 

You  may  say  that  this  man  was  too  young  to  ac 
complish  a  real  Failure.  But  you  need  not  bother 
about  that,  either.  One  is  never  too  young  to  ex 
perience  Failure.  And  Failure,  to  the  one  who  fails, 
is  always,  at  the  time,  very  real. 

265 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

So  this  man  saw  the  castles  that  he  had  toiled 
so  hard  to  build  come  tumbling  down  about  him. 
So  he  was  awakened  from  his  bright  dreams  to 
find  that  they  were  only  dreams.  So  he  came  to 
see  his  work  as  idleness  and  folly.  Sorrowfully  he 
looked  at  the  ruin  of  his  building.  Hopelessly  he 
recalled  his  dreams.  Despairingly  he  looked  upon 
his  fruitless  labor.  With  his  fine  manhood's  strength 
dead  within  him,  he  bitterly  felt  himself  to  be  but 
a  weakling;  fit  only  to  be  pushed  aside  by  the 
stronger,  better,  men  among  whom  he  went,  now,  with 
lifeless  step  and  downcast  face.  There  was.  left  in  his 
heart  no  courage  and  no  hope.  He  saw  himself  a 
most  miserable  coward,  and,  ashamed  and  disgraced 
in  his  own  sight,  he  shrank  from  the  eyes  of  his 
fellows  and  withdrew  into  himself  to  hide. 

And  the  only  thing  that  saved  the  man  was  this : 
he  did  not  pity  himself.  Self-pity  is  debilitating.  It 
is  the  dry  rot  that  weakens  the  life  lines.  It  is  the 
rust  that  eats  the  anchor  chains.  At  the  last  analysis, 
a  man  probably  knows  less  about  himself  than  he 
knows  about  others.  The  only  difference  is  that  what 
he  knows  about  others  is  sometimes  right  while  that 
which  he  thinks  he  knows  about  himself  is  nearly 
always  wrong.  Salvation  is  in  pitying  someone  else. 
If  one  must  have  pity  he  should  accept  it  from 

266 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

strangers  only.  The  pity  of  strangers  is  harmless  to 
the  object  of  it  and  very  gratifying — to  the  strangers. 
Self-accusation,  self -censure,  self-condemnation :  these 
are  the  antidotes  for  the  poison  that  sometimes  enters 
the  soul  through  Failure.  But  these  antidotes  must 
be  administered  with  care.  Self -accusation  has,  usu 
ally,  a  very  low  percentage  of  cause.  Self-censure, 
undiluted,  is  dangerous  to  self-respect.  And  self- 
condemnation  is  rarely  to  be  had  pure.  When  one 
brings  himself  to  trial  before  himself  his  chance  for 
justice  is  small  the  judge  is  nearly  always  preju 
diced,  the  jury  packed,  and  the  evidence  incomplete. 
The  man,  when  he  had  withdrawn  into  himself, 
saw  the  world  moving  on  its  way  without  him  as 
though  his  failure  mattered,  to  it,  not  at  all.  He 
was  forced  to  realize  that  the  work  of  the  world  could 
be  done  without  him.  He  was  compelled  to  see  that 
the  sum  of  human  happiness  and  human  woe  would 
be  neither  less  nor  more  because  of  him.  The  world 
did  not  really  need  his  success — he  needed  it.  The 
world  did  not  suffer  from  his  failure — he  suffered. 
He  did  not  understand,  then,  that  no  man  is  in  line 
for  success  until  he  understands  how  little  either  his 
success  or  his  failure  matters  to  the  world.  He  did 
not  know,  then,  how  often  a  good  strong  failure  is  the 
corner  stone  of  a  well  builded  life. 

267 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

A  child  is  not  cripj  led  for  life  because  it  falls 
when  it  is  learning  to  walk ;  neither  has  a  man  come 
to  the  end  of  his  upward  climb  because  he  "stubs 
his  toe."  The  man  knew  this  later  but  just  then  he 
was  too  sore  at  heart  to  think  of  even  trying  to  get  up 
again.  All  those  first  months  of  that  new  year  he 
did  nothing  but  the  labor  that  was  necessary  for  him 
to  do  in  order  to  live.  And,  in  that  which  he  did,  he 
had  no  heart  but  toiled  as  a  dumb  beast  toils  in 
obedience  to  its  master.  The  joy  of  work  which  is  the 
reward  of  labor  was  gone. 

So  the  spring  came.  The  air  grew  warm  and 
balmy.  The  grass  on  the  lawns  and  in  the  parks 
began  to  look  soft  and  inviting  to  feet  that  were 
wea-ry  with  the  feel  of  icy  pavements.  The  naked 
trees  were  being  clothed  in  spring  raiment,  fresh  and 
green.  The  very  faces  of  the  people  seemed  to  glow 
with  a  new  warmth  as  though  a  more  generous  life 
was  stirring  in  their  veins.  As  the  sun  gathered 
strength,  and  the  coldness  and  bleakness  of  winter 
retreated  farther  and  farther  before  the  advance  of 
summer,  the  manner  and  dress  of  the  crowds  upon 
the  streets  marked  the  change  as  truly  as  the  habits 
of  the  birds  and  flowers,  until,  at  last,  here  and 
there,  straw  hats  appeared  and  suddenly,  as  bluebirds 
come,  barefooted  boys  were  playing  marbles  in  the 

268 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

alleys  and  fishing  tackle  appeared  in  the  windows  of 
the  stores. 

All  his  life  the  man  had  been  an  ardent  fisherman. 
And  so,  when  his  eyes  were  attracted  that  noon,  as 
he  was  passing  one  of  those  windows  filled  with  rods 
and  reels  and  lines  and  hooks  and  nets  and  all  things 
dear  to  the  angler's  heart,  he  paused.  His  somber 
face  brightened.  His  form,  that  was  already  stooped 
a  little,  straightened.  His  listless  eyes,  for  a  mo 
ment,  shone  with  their  old  time  fire.  Then  he  went 
on  to  his  work. 

But,  less  than  ever,  that  afternoon,  was  the  man's 
heart  in  his  labor.  While  his  hands  mechanically 
performed  their  appointed  tasks  and  his  brain  as 
mechanically  did  its  part,  the  man  himself  was  not 
there.  He  had  gone  far,  far,  away  into  his  Yester 
days.  Once  again,  in  his  Yesterdays,  the  man  went 
fishing. 

The  boy  was  a  very  small  boy  when  first  he  went 
fishing.  And  he  fished  in  the  brook  that  ran  through 
the  valley  below  the  little  girl's  house.  His  hook  was 
only  a  pin,  bent  by  his  own  fingers ;  his  line,  a  bit  of 
string  or  thread  borrowed  from  mother's  work  basket ; 
and  his  rod,  a  slender  branch  of  willow  or  a  green 
shoot  from  one  of  the  trees  in  the  orchard,  or,  it  might 
be-  a  stalk  of  the  tall  pigweed  that  grew  down  behind 

269 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

the  barn;  and  for  bait,  those  humble  friends  of  boy 
hood,  the  angle  worms.  How  the  boy  shouted  and 
danced  with  glee  when  he  found  a  big  one;  even 
though  he  did  shudder  a  little  as  he  picked  it  up, 
squirming  and  wiggling,  to  drop  it  into  the  old  bak 
ing  powder  can  he  called  his  bait  box!  And  how 
the  little  girl  shrieked  with  fear  and  admiration! 
Very  proud  was  the  boy  that  he  had  courage  to  handle 
the  crawling  things — though  many  of  them  did  escape 
into  their  tiny  holes  before  he  could  bring  himself 
quite  to  the  point  of  catching  them  and  pulling  them 
out.  "Only  girls  are  afraid  of  worms  and  toads  and 
bugs.  Boys  can  bait  their  own  hooks."  Manfully, 
too,  did  he  hide  his  thoughts  when  conscience  pricked 
him,  even  as  he  the  worm.  aDo  worms  have  feelin's  ?" 
He  wondered.  "Does  it  hurt  ?"  Half  frightened,  he 
had  laughed,  one  day,  when  the  little  girl  asked: 
"What  if  some  wicked  giant  should  catch  you  and 
stick  you  on  a  great  hook  and  swing  you  through  the 
air,  kicking  and  squirming,  and  drop  you  into  the 
water  where  it's  deep,  and  leave  you  there  till  some 
great  fish  comes  along  to  swallow  you  like  the  man  in 
the  Bible  that  mother  reads  about?" 

But  the  boy  in  his  Yesterdays  carried  home  no 
fish  from  that  little  brook;  though  he  spent  many 
hours  in  the  hot  summer  sun  watching  eagerly  for  a 

270 


THEIK  YESTEKDAYS 

bite.  He  knew  there  must  be  fish  there — great  big 
fellows — there  were  such  lovely  places  for  them  under 
the  grassy  banks — if  only  they  would  come  out — but 
they  never  did.  Not  until  he  was  older  did  the  boy 
understand  the  real  reason  of  this  failure.  The  water 
was  not  deep  enough.  He  learned,  in  time,  that  big 
fish  are  not  found  in  shallow  streams. 

I  do  not  know,  but  perhaps,  the  man,  even  as  the 
boy,  was  fishing  in  a  too  shallow  stream. 

As  he  grew  older,  the  boy  wandered  farther  down 
the  creek.  A  "sure  ?nough"  fishhook  took  the  place 
of  the  bent  pin  and  a  real  "boughten"  line,  with  a 
sinker,  was  tied  to  the  hook  though  he  still  used  the 
slender  willow  rods.  And,  now,  he  sometimes 
brought  home  a  fish  or  two  from  the  deeper  water 
down  in  the  pasture  lot ;  and  no  success  in  after  life 
would  ever  bring  to  the  man  the  same  thrill  of  delight 
that  was  felt  by  the  boy  when  he  landed  a  tiny 
"chub"  or  "shiner."  ~No  Roman  general,  returning 
in  triumph  from  the  wars  with  captives  chained  to 
his  chariot,  ever  moved  with  a  prouder  spirit  than  he, 
when  he  went  home  to  mother  with  his  little  string  of 
captured  fishes. 

Then  there  came  a  day  that  was  the  proudest  in 
his  life — the  day  when  he  was  given  a  larger  hook, 
a  longer  line,  a  cane  pole,  and  permission  to  go  to  the 

271 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

mill  pond.  ~No  more  fishing  for  him  in  the  brook 
now!  He  had  outgrown  all  that.  How  small  the 
little  stream  seemed,  now,  as  he  crossed  it  on  his  way 
down  the  road !  Could  it  be  possible,  he  asked  him 
self,  that  he  was  ever  content  to  fish  there,  and  with 
a  bent  pin,  at  that?  And  he  felt  carefully  in  his 
pocket  to  see  if  those  extra  hooks  were  safe;  and 
took  another  peep  at  the  big  worms  in  his  bait  box — 
an  old  tomato  can  this  time.  There  would  be  no 
twinge  of  conscience  when  he  baited  his  hook  that 
day.  And  proudly  he  tried  to  take  longer  steps  in 
the  dusty  road;  almost  breaking  into  a  run  as  he 
neared  the  turn  where  he  knew  that  he  would  see  the 
pond. 

Often,  the  boy  wondered  if  there  could  be  any 
where  in  all  the  world  such  another  body  of  water  as 
that  old  mill  pond.  Often,  he  wondered  how  deep 
it  was  down  by  the  dam  in  the  shadow  of  the  giant 
elms  that  half  hid  the  mill.  Many  times,  he  ques 
tioned:  "Where  did  all  the  water  come  from  any 
way?"  Surely  it  could  not  all  come  from  the  tiny 
stream  that  flowed  down  the  valley  below  the  little 
girl's  house !  Why,  he  could  wade  in  that  and  there 
were  boats  on  this! 

Once  again,  the  man,  in  his  Yesterdays,  stood  at 
that  turn  in  the  road ;  under  his  bare,  boyish,  feet  the 

272 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

hot,  hot,  dust;  over  his  head  the  blue,  blue,  sky; 
before  him  the  beautiful  water  that  mirrored  back 
the  trees,  the  clouds,  and  the  buildings.  Once  again, 
he  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  covered  bridge,  fish 
pole  in  hand,  and,  with  boyish  delight  and  pride, 
hailed  each  addition  to  the  string  of  catfish  and 
suckers  that  swam  near  by,  safely  anchored  to  the 
bank.  He  could  hear  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  mill 
across  the  pond  and  the  merry  shout  of  the  miller  hail 
ing  some  passer-by.  And,  now  and  then,  would  come, 
the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  rumble  of  a  farm 
er's  wagon  on  the  planks  above  his  head  and  he  would 
idly  watch  the  ever  widening  circles  in  the  water  as 
some  bit  of  dirt,  jarred  from  the  beams  above,  marred 
the  glassy  surface.  The  swallows  were  wheeling  here 
and  there  in  swift,  graceful  motions;  one  moment 
lightly  skimming  the  surface  of  the  pond  and  the 
next,  high  in  air  above  the  trees  and  buildings. 
A  water  snake  came  gliding  toward  an  old  log  close 
by.  A  turtle  was  floating  lazily  in  the  sun.  And  a 
kingfisher  startled  him  with  its  harsh,  discordant, 
rattle  as  it  passed  in  rapid  flight  toward  the  upper 
end  of  the  pond  where  the  tall  cat-tails  were  nodding 
in  the  sunlight  and  the  drooping  willows  fringed  the 
bank  with  green. 

The  shadows  of  the  giant  elms  near  the  dam  grew 
273 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

longer  and  longer.  A  workman  left  the  mill  and 
started  across  the  pasture  toward  his  home.  A 
farmer  stopped  on  his  way  from  the  field  to  water 
his  team.  The  frogs  began  to  call  shrilly  from  the 
reeds  and  rushes.  The  swallows,  twittering,  sought 
their  nests  beneath  the  bridge.  It  was  time  that  the 
boy  was  going  home. 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  the  little  fisherman  drew  his 
line  from  the  water  and  wrapped  it  carefully  round 
the  pole.  Then,  picking  up  his  string  of  fish,  he 
inspected  them  thoughtfully — admiring  the  largest 
and  wishing  that  the  others  were  like  him — and, 
casting  one  last  glance  at  the  water,  the  trees,  the 
mill,  started  down  the  road  toward  home. 

He  must  hurry  now.  It  was  later  than  he  thought. 
Mother  would  be  watching  and  waiting  supper  for 
him.  How  pleased  she  would  be  to  see  his  fish.  He 
wished  that  the  string  were  longer.  How  quickly 
the  night  was  coming  on.  It  was  almost  dark.  And 
then,  as  the  boy  went  down  into  the  deepening  dusk 
of  the  valley,  he  saw,  on  the  other  side,  the  light  in 
the  windows.  He  was  almost  home. 

Tired  little  fisherman.  Wearily  he  crossed  the 
creek  and  made  his  way  up  the  gentle  slope  toward 
the  lights  that  gleamed  so  brightly  against  the  dark 
mass  of  the  orchard  hill,  while  high  above,  the  firsfc 

274 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

stars  of  the  evening  were  coming  out.  And  then,  as 
in  the  gloaming  he  reached  at  last  the  gate  where  the 
little  girl  lived,  he  found  her  waiting — watching 
anxiously — eager  to  greet  him  with  sweet  solicitude. 
"Did  you  catch  anything  ?" 

Proudly  the  boy  exhibited  his  catch — wishing 
again  in  his  heart  that  the  string  were  longer.  Sadly, 
he  told  how  the  biggest  fish  of  all  had  dropped  from 
his  hook  just  when  he  had  it  almost  landed.  And 
sometimes — the  man  remembered — sometimes  the 
boy  was  forced  to  answer  that  he  had  caught  nothing 
at  all.  But  always,  then,  would  he  bravely  declare 
that  he  would  have  better  luck  next  time. 

Tired  little  fisherman — going  home  with  his  catch 
in  the  evening!  Always-disappointed  little  fisher 
man — wishing  that  his  string  were  longer !  Always- 
brave-to-try-again  little  fisherman — when  his  day  was 
a  day  of  failure ! 

The  man  came  back  from  his  Yesterdays,  that 
afternoon,  to  wonder:  when  the  shadows  of  his  life 
grew  longer  and  longer — when  his  sun  was  slowly 
setting — when  he  reluctantly  withdrew,  at  last,  from 
the  busy  haunts  of  men — when  he  went  down  the 
road  toward  home,  as  it  grew  darker  and  darker 
until  he  could  not  see  the  way,  would  there  be  a  light 
in  the  window  for  him  ?  Would  he  know  that  soine- 

275 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

one  was  waiting  and  watching  ?  And  would  he  wish 
that  his  string  of  fish  were  longer?  However  great 
his  catch,  would  he  not  wish  that  the  string  were 
longer  ?  And  might  it  not  be,  too,  that  always  in  life 
the  largest  fish  would  be  the  one  that  he  had  almost 
landed  ? 

And  it  was  so  that  the  old  fire  came  again  into 
the  man's  eyes  to  stay.  He  stood  once  more  erect 
before  men.  Again  his  countenance  was  lighted  with 
courage  and  with  hope.  With  the  brave  words  of  the 
little  fisherman  who  had  caught  nothing,  the  man, 
once  again,  faced  the  world  to  work  out  his  dreams. 


And  the  woman  who  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman 
was  haunted  by  the  thought  of  Failure. 

After  Death  had  come  with  such  suddenness  into 
her  life,  she  had  gone  back  to  her  work,  and,  in  spite 
of  the  changes  that  Death  had  wrought,  the  days  had 
gone  much  as  the  days  before.  But,  because  of  the 
new  conditions  and  the  added  responsibilities,  she 
gave  herself,  now,  somewhat  more  fully  to  that  work 
than  she  had  ever  done  before.  She  left  for  herself 
less  time  for  the  dreams  of  her  womanhood — less  time 
for  waiting  beside  that  old,  old,  door  beyond  which 


276 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

lay  the  life  that  she  desired  with  all  the  strength  of 
her  woman  heart. 

And  that  world  in  which  she  labored — that  life  to 
which  she  now  gave  herself  more  and  more — re 
warded  her  more  and  more  abundantly.  Because  she 
was  strong  in  body  with  skillful  hands  and  quick 
brain;  because  she  was  superior  in  these  things  to 
many  who  labored  beside  her;  she  received  a  larger 
reward  than  they.  For  the  richness,  the  fullness,  of 
her  womanhood,  she  received  nothing.  From  love, 
the  only  thing  that  can  make  that  which  a  woman 
receives  fully  acceptable  to  her,  she  received  nothing. 

There  were  many  who,  now,  congratulated  the 
woman  upon  what  they  called  her  success.  And  some, 
who  knew  the  measure  of  the  reward  she  received 
from  the  world  that  set  a  price  upon  the  things  of  her 
womanhood,  envied  her;  wishing  themselves  as  for 
tunate  as  she.  She  was  even  pointed  out  and  spoken 
of  triumphantly,  by  certain  modern,  down-to-date, 
ones,  as  an  example  of  the  successful  woman  of  the 
age.  Her  success — as  it  was  called — was  cited  as 
a  triumphant  argument  for  the  right  of  women  to  sell 
their  womanhood  for  a  price :  to  put  their  strength  of 
mind  and  flesh  and  blood,  their  physical  and  intel 
lectual  vigor,  their  vitality  and  life,  upon  a  market 


277 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

that  cannot  recognize  their  womanhood ;  even  though 
by  so  doing  they  rob  the  race  of  the  only  contribution 
they  can  make  that  will  add  to  its  perfection. 

Really,  if  the  customs  and  necessities  of  this  age 
of  "down-to-date-ism"  are  to  take  the  world's  mothers, 
then  it  would  seem  that  this  age  of  "down-to-date-ism" 
should  find,  for  the  perpetuation  and  perfection  of 
the  race,  a  substitute  for  women.  The  age  should 
evolve  a  better  way,  a  more  modern  method,  than 
the  old-fashioned  way  that  has  been  in  vogue  so  long. 
For,  just  as  surely  as  the  laws  of  life  are  beyond  our 
power  to  repeal,  so  surely  will  the  operation  of  the 
laws  of  life  not  change  to  accommodate  our  newest 
thinking  and  the  race,  by  spending  its  best  woman 
strength  in  work  that  cannot  recognize  womanhood, 
will  bequeath  to  the  ages  to  come  an  erer  lowering 
standard  of  human  life. 

The  woman  felt  this — she  felt  that  she  could  most 
truly  serve  the  race  by  being  true  to  the  dreams  of 
her  womanhood.  She  felt  that  the  work  she  was 
doing  was  not  her  real  work  but  a  makeshift  to  be 
undertaken  under  protest  and  discarded  without  re 
gret  when  her  opportunity  to  enter  upon  the  real  work 
of  her  life  should  present  itself.  But  still,  even  while 
feeling  this,  gradually  there  had  come  to  be,  for  her, 
an  amount  of  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  she  was 

278 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

succeeding  in  that  which  she  had  set  her  hand  to  do. 
In  the  increasing  reward  she  received,  in  the  ad 
vanced  position  she  occupied,  in  the  deference  that 
was  shown  her,  in  the  authority  that  was  given  her, 
in  the  larger  interests  that  were  intrusted  to  her,  and 
even  in  the  attitude  of  those  who  held  her  to  be  a 
convincing  example  of  the  newest  womanhood,  there 
was  coming  to  be  a  kind  of  satisfaction. 

Then  came  that  day  when  the  woman  expressed  a 
little  of  this  satisfaction  to  the  man  who  had  always 
understood  and  who  had  been  always  so  kind.  In 
this,  too,  the  woman  felt  that  he  understood. 

The  man  had  not  sought  to  take  advantage  of  the 
intimacy  she  had  granted  him  in  those  trying  days 
when  Death  had  come  into  her  life.  He  had  never 
failed  in  being  kind  and  considerate  in  the  thousand 
little  things  of  the  work  that  brought  them  together 
and  that  gave  her  opportunity  to  learn  his  goodness 
and  the  genuine  worth  of  his  manhood.  Nor  had  he 
failed  to  make  her  understand  that  still  he  hoped  for 
the  time  when  she  would  go  with  him  into  the  life 
beyond  the  old,  old,  door.  But  that  day,  when  she 
made  known  to  him,  a  little,  her  growing  satisfaction 
in  that  which  the  world  called  her  success,  she  saw 
that  he  was  hurt.  For  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  be 
troubled  and  afraid  for  her. 

279 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Very  gravely  he  looked  down  into  her  eyes.  Very 
gravely  he  congratulated  her.  And  then,  quietly  and 
convincingly,  with  words  of  authority,  he  pointed 
out  to  her  the  possible  heights  she  might  reach — 
would  reach — if  she  continued.  He  told  her  of  the 
place  that  she,  if  she  chose,  might  gain.  He  spoke 
of  the  reward  that  would  be  hers.  And,  as  he  talked 
to  her  of  these  things,  he  saw  the  light  of  interest 
and  anticipation  kindling  in  her  eyes.  Sadly  he  saw 
it.  Then,  pausing — hesitating — he  asked  her  slowly : 
"Do  you  really  think  that  it  is,  after  all,  worth  while  ? 
For  you,  I  mean,  do  you  think  that  it  would  be  a 
satisfying  success  ?"  He  did  not  wish  to  interfere 
with  her  career,  he  said — and  smiled  a  little  at  the 
word.  He  would  even  help  her  if — if — she  was  sure 
that  such  a  career  would  bring  her  the  real  happiness 
he  so  much  wanted  her  to  have. 

And  the  woman,  as  the  man  looked  into  her  eyes 
and  as  she  saw  the  trouble  in  his  thoughtful  face 
and  listened  to  his  gravely  spoken  words,  felt 
ashamed.  Remembering,  again,  the  dreams  of  her 
womanhood,  she  was  ashamed.  From  that  day,  the 
woman  was  haunted  by  the  thought  of  Failure. 

Why,  she  asked  herself,  why  could  she  not  open 
the  door  of  her  heart  to  this  man  who  had  been  so 
good  to  her — so  true  to  her  and  to  himself?  If  he 

280 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

had  taken  advantage  in  any  way,  if  he  had  sought  to 
use  his  power,  she  would  not  have  cared  so  much. 
But  because  she  knew  him  so  well;  because  she  had 
seen  his  splendid  character,  his  fine  manhood,  his 
kindness  of  heart,  and  his  strength;  because  of  the 
dreams  of  her  womanhood ;  she  had  tried  to  open  the 
door  and  bid  him  take  possession  of  her  heart  that 
was  as  an  empty  room  furnished  and  ready.  But 
she  could  not.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  the  key.  Why 
— why — could  she  not  give  this  man  what  he 
asked  ?  Why  could  she  not  go  with  him  into  the  life 
of  her  dreams?  What  was  it  that  held  her  back? 
What  was  it  that  held  shut  the  door  of  her  woman 
hood  against  him?  Could  it  be  that,  after  all,  she 
was  fit  only  for  the  career  upon  which  she  was  already 
entered?  Could  it  be  that  she  was  not  worthy  to 
enter  into  the  life  her  womanhood  craved — the  life 
for  which  she  had  longed  with  such  passionate  long 
ing — the  life  she  had  desired  with  such  holy  desire  ? 
Could  it  be  that  she  was  unworthy  of  her  woman 
hood  ? 

Bitterly  this  woman,  who  knew  herself  to  be  a 
woman,  who  had  dreamed  the  dreams  of  womanhood, 
and  who  was  pointed  out  as  a  successful  woman — 
bitterly  she  felt  that  she  had  failed. 

She  knew  that  her  failure  could  not  be  because 
281 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

she  had  squandered  the  wealth  of  her  womanhood. 
Very  carefully  had  she  kept  the  treasures  of  her 
womanhood  for  the  coming  of  that  one  for  whom 
she  waited — knowing  not  who  he  was  but  only  that 
she  would  know  him  when  he  came.  Might  it  be 
that  he  had  come  and  she  did  not  know  him  ?  Might 
it  be  that  the  heart  of  her  womanhood  did  not  know  ? 
If  this  was  so  then,  indeed,  Life  itself  is  but  an  acci 
dent  and  must  trust  to  blind  chance  the  fulfillment 
of  its  most  sacred  mission — the  perpetuation  and 
perfection  of  itself. 

That  the  Creator  should  give  laws  for  the  right 
mating  of  all  his  creatures  except  man — leaving  men 
and  women,  alone,  with  no  guide  to  lead  them  aright 
in  this  relationship  that  is  most  vital  to  the  species — 
is  unthinkable.  Deeply  implanted  in  the  hearts  of 
men  and  women  there  is,  also,  an  instinct;  an  in 
stinct  that  is  superior  to  the  dictates  of  the  social, 
financial,  or  ecclesiastical  will.  And  it  is  this  natural 
instinct  of  mate  selection  that  should  govern  the 
marriages  of  human  kind  as  truly  as  it  marries  the 
birds  of  the  fields  and  the  wild  things  that  mate  in 
the  forests. 

The  woman  knew,  instinctively,  that  she  should 
not  give  herself  to  this  man.  She  felt  in  her  heart 
that  to  do  so  would  make  her  kin  to  her  sisters  in 

282 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

the  unnamable  profession.  The  church  would  sanc 
tion,  the  state  would  legalize,  and  society  would 
accept  such  a  union — does  accept  such  unions — but 
only  the  divine  laws  of  Life,  given  for  the  protection 
of  Life,  can  ever  make  a  man  and  a  woman  husband 
and  wife.  The  laws  that  govern  the  right  mating  of 
human  kind  are  not  enacted  by  organizations  either 
social,  political,  or  religious,  but  are  written  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  would,  in  mating,  fulfill  the  pur 
pose  of  Life.  These  laws  may  be  broken  by  man  but 
they  cannot  by  him  be  repealed ;  and  the  penalty  that 
is  imposed  for  their  violation  is  very  evident  to  all 
who  have  eyes  to  see  and  who  observe  with  under 
standing. 

The  woman  knew,  also,  that,  in  respect  and  honor 
and  gratitude  to  this  man,  she  dared  not  do  this 
thing  against  which  the  instinct  of  her  heart  pro 
tested.  But  still  she  asked  herself :  "Why  ?  Why 
was  the  door  shut  against  him  ?  Why  was  it  not 
in  her  power  to  do  that  which  she  so  longed  to  do  ?" 

And  still,  the  thought  of  Failure  haunted  her. 

And  so  it  was,  that,  in  asking,  "why" — in  seeking 
the  reason  of  her  failure,  the  woman  was  led  back 
even  to  the  years  of  her  childhood.  Back  into  her 
Yesterdays  she  went  in  search  of  the  key  that  kept 
fast  locked  the  door  of  her  heart  against  the  man 

283 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

whom  she  would  have  so  gladly  admitted.  And, 
all  the  way  back,  as  she  retraced  the  steps  of  her 
years,  she  looked  for  one  who  might  have  the  key. 
But  she  found  no  one.  And  in  her  Yesterdays  she 
found  only  a  boy  who  had  entered  her  heart  when 
it  was  the  heart  of  a  little  girl. 

That  the  boy  of  her  Yesterdays  lived  still  in  the 
heart  of  the  woman,  she  knew.  But  surely — surely — 
the  boy  was  not  strong  enough  to  hold  her  woman 
heart  against  the  man  who  sought  admittance.  The 
boy  could  not  hold  the  door  against  the  man  and 
against  the  woman  herself.  Those  vows,  made  so 
solemnly  under  the  cherry  tree,  were  but  childish 
vows.  It  was  but  a  play  wedding,  after  all.  And 
the  kiss  that  had  sealed  the  vows — the  kiss  that  was 
so  different  from  other  kisses — it  was  but  a  childish 
kiss.  In  the  long  years  that  had  come  between  that 
boy  and  girl  the  vows  and  the  kiss  had  become  but 
memories — even  as  the  games  they  played — even  as 
her  keeping  house  and  her  family  of  dolls.  That 
child  wedding  belonged  only  to  the  Yesterdays. 

The  woman  was  haunted  by  the  thought  of 
Failure. 


284 


SUCCESS 

HE  world  said  that  he  was  a  young  man 
to  have  achieved  so  notable  a  Success. 
And  he  was.  But  years  have,  really, 
little  to  do  with  a  man's  age.  It  is  the 
use  that  a  man  makes  of  his  years  that  ages  him  or 
keeps  him  young. 

This  man  knew  that  he  was  a  man.  He  knew 
that  manhood  is  not  a  matter  of  years.  And,  know 
ing  this,  he  had  dreamed  a  man's  dream.  In  the 
world  he  had  found  something  to  do — a  man's  work 
— and  from  his  Occupation  he  had  gained  Knowl 
edge.  He  had  learned  the  value  of  Ignorance  and, 
behind  the  things  that  men  have  hung  upon  and 
piled  about  it,  he  had  come  to  recognize  Religion. 
He  knew  both  the  dangers  and  the  blessings  of  Tra 
dition.  He  had  gained  the  heights  that  are  fortified 
by  Temptation  and  from  those  levels  so  far  above 
the  lowlands  had  looked  out  upon  Life.  Death  he 
knew  as  a  fact  and  through  Failure  he  had  passed 
as  through  a  smelting  furnace.  It  is  these  things,  I 
say,  that  count  for  more  in  life  than  years.  So,  al- 

285 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

though  he  was  still  young,  the  man  was  ready  for 
Success.  He  was  in  the  fullness  of  his  manhood 
strength.  The  tide  of  Life,  for  him,  was  just  reach 
ing  its  height. 

I  do  not  know  just  what  it  was  in  which  the  man 
achieved  Success.  Just  what  it  was,  indeed,  is  not 
my  story ;  nor  does  it  matter  for  Success  is  always  the 
same.  My  story  is  this:  that  the  man  achieved 
Success  while  he  was  still  young  and  strong  to  rejoice 
in  the  triumph. 

The  dreams  that  he  had  dreamed  on  the  hilltop, 
when  first  he  realized  his  manhood,  were,  in  part, 
fulfilled.  He  was  looked  upon  by  the  world  as  one  not 
of  the  common  herd — as  one  not  of  the  rank  and  file. 
He  was  accepted,  in  the  field  of  his  work,  as  a  leader 
— a  master.  He  was  held  as  one  having  authority 
and  power.  The  world  pointed  him  out  to  its  chil 
dren  as  an  example  to  be  followed.  The  mob,  that 
crowds  always  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  looked  up 
and  cursed  or  begged  or  praised  as  is  the  temper  of 
such  mobs.  His  name  was  often  in  the  papers. 
When  he  appeared  on  the  streets  or  in  public  places 
he  was  recognized.  The  people  told  each  other  who 
he  was  and  what  he  had  done.  He  was  received  as  a 
companion  by  those  who  were  counted  great  by  the 
world.  Doors  that  were  closed  to  the  multitude,  and 

286 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

that  had  been  closed  to  him,  were  opened  readily. 
Opportunities,  offered  only  to  the  few,  were  pre 
sented.  The  golden  stream  of  wealth  flowed  to  his 
feet.  By  the  foolish  hangers-on  of  the  world  he  was 
sought — he  was  offered  praise  and  admiration.  All 
that  is  called  Success,  in  short,  was  his;  not  in  so 
great  a  measure  as  had  come  to  some  older  than  he, 
it  is  true ;  hut  it  was  genuine ;  it  was  merited ;  it  was 
secure;  and,  with  the  years,  it  would  increase  as  a 
river  nearing  the  sea. 

And  the  man,  as  he  looked  back  to  that  day  of  his 
dreams,  was  glad  with  an  honest  gladness.  As  he 
looked  back  to  the  time  when  he  had  asked  of  the 
world  only  something  to  do,  he  was  proud  with  a 
just  pride.  As  he  looked  back  upon  the  things  out 
of  which  he  had  builded  his  Success  and  saw  how 
well  he  had  builded,  he  was  satisfied.  But  still  in  his 
gladness  and  pride  and  satisfaction  there  was  a  dis 
appointment. 

In  his  dreams,  when  he  had  looked  out  upon  the 
world  as  a  conquering  emperor,  the  man  had  seen 
only  the  deeds  of  valor — the  exhibitions  of  courage, 
of  heroism,  of  strength — he  had  seen  only  the  vic 
tories — the  honors.  But  now,  in  the  fulfillment  of 
his  dreams — when  he  had  won  the  victory — when  the 
honors  were  his — he  knew  the  desperate  struggle,  the 

287 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

disastrous  losses,  the  pitiful  suffering.  He  had  felt 
the  dangers  grip  his  heart.  He  had  felt  the  horrid 
fear  of  defeat  striking  at  his  soul.  Upon  him  were 
the  marks  of  the  conflict.  His  victory  had  not  been 
won  without  effort.  Success  had  demanded  a  price 
and  he  had  paid.  Perhaps  no  one  but  the  man  him 
self  knew  how  great  was  the  price  he  had  paid. 

The  man  found  also  that  Success  brought  cares 
greater  than  he  had  ever  known  in  the  days  of  his 
struggle.  Always  there  are  cares  that  wait  at  the 
end  of  the  battle  and  attend  only  upon  the  victor. 
Always  there  are  responsibilities  that  come  only  when 
the  victory  is  won — that  are  never  seen  in  the  heat  of 
the  conflict. 

Once  let  it  be  discovered  that  you  have  the  strength 
and  the  willingness  to  carry  burdens  and  burdens  will 
be  heaped  upon  you  until  you  stagger,  fainting,  under 
the  load.  Life  has  never  yet  bred  a  man  who  could 
shoulder  the  weight  that  the  world  insists  that  he 
take  up  in  his  success.  And,  when  the  man  could 
not  carry  all  the  burdens  that  the  world  brought 
because  his  strength  and  endurance  was  only  that  of 
a  mortal,  the  world  cursed  him — called  him  selfish, 
full  of  greed,  heartless,  an  oppressor  caring  nothing 
for  the  woes  of  others.  Those  who  had  offered  no 
helping  hand  in  the  time  of  his  need  now  clamored 

288 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

loudly  for  a  large  part  of  his  strength.  Those  who 
had  cared  nothing  for  his  life  in  the  times  of  his 
hardships  now  insisted  that  he  give  the  larger  part 
of  his  life  to  them.  Those  who  had  held  him  back 
now  demanded  that  he  lift  them  up  to  a  place  beside 
him.  Those  who  had  shown  him  only  indifference — 
coldness — contempt,  now  begged  of  him  attention — 
friendship — honors — aid. 

And  from  all  these  things  that  attended  his  suc 
cess  the  man  found  it  impossible  to  escape.  The 
cares,  the  burdens,  the  responsibilities  that  Success 
forced  him  to  take  up  rested  heavily  upon  him.  So 
heavy  indeed  were  these  things  that  he  had  little 
strength  or  will  left  for  the  enjoyment  of  that  which 
he  had  so  worthily  won. 

And  the  victory  that  he  had  so  hardily  gained,  the 
place  that  he  now  held,  the  man  found  that  he  could 
keep  only  by  the  utmost  exertion  of  his  strength. 
The  battles  he  had  fought  were  nothing  in  comparison 
to  those  he  must  now  fight.  The  struggle  he  had 
made  was  nothing  to  the  effort  he  must  continue  to 
make.  Temptations  multiplied  and  appeared  in  many 
new  and  unexpected  forms.  The  very  world  that 
pointed  him  out  as  an  example  watched  eagerly  for 
excuse  to  condemn.  Those  who  sought  him  with 
honors — who  praised  and  flattered  him,  in  envy, 

289 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

secretly  hoped  for  his  ruin.  Those  who  followed  him 
like  dogs  for  favors  would  howl  like  wolves  on  his 
trail  if  he  turned  ever  so  little  aside.  Those  who 
opened  for  him  the  doors  of  opportunities  would  flock 
like  vultures  to  carrion  if  he  should  fall.  The  world, 
that,  without  consideration,  heaped  upon  him  its 
burdens,  would  trample  him  beneath  its  feet  if  he 
should  slip  under  the  weight.  Nor  had  he  in  Success 
won  freedom.  His  very  servants  were  freer  than  he, 
to  come  and  go,  to  seek  their  peculiar  pleasures. 

The  chains  with  which  Success  had  fettered  the 
man  were  unusually  galling  and  heavy  upon  him 
that  day,  when,  on  his  way  to  an  important  appoint 
ment,  his  carriage  was  checked  in  a  crowded  street. 
The  man's  mind  was  so  absorbed  in  the  business 
waiting  his  attention  that  he  did  not  notice  how 
dense  was  the  crowd  that  barred  the  way.  Im 
patiently — with  overwrought  nerves — he  spoke 
sharply,  commanding  his  man  to  drive  on. 

The  man  begged  pardon  but  it  was  impossible. 

"Impossible,"  still  more  sharply,  "what's  the 
matter  ?" 

The  driver  ventured  a  smile.  "It's  the  circus 
parade,  sir." 

"Then  turn  around." 


290 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

But  that,  too,  was  impossible.  The  traffic  had 
pushed  in  behind  hemming  them  in. 

Then,  down  the  street  that  crossed  in  front  of  the 
crowded  jam  of  vehicles,  came  the  familiar  sound  of 
trumpets  and  the  gorgeously  attired  heralds  at  the 
head  of  the  procession  appeared,  followed  by  the 
leading  band  with  its  crashing,  smashing,  music. 

As  gilded  chariot  followed  gilded  chariot,  each 
drawn  by  many  pairs  of  beautiful  horses,  gaily 
plumed  and  equipped — as  the  many  riders,  in  glitter 
ing  armor  and  flashing,  spangled,  costumes,  rode 
proudly  past ;  followed  by  the  long  line  of  elephants 
and  camels  with  the  cages  of  their  fellow  captives; 
and,  in  turn,  by  the  chariot  racers,  the  clowns,  and 
the  wagons  of  black  faced  fun  makers ;  and  at  last  by 
the  steam  calliope  with  its  escort  of  madly  shouting- 
urchins — the  man  in  the  carriage  slipped  away  from 
the  cares  and  burdens  of  the  present  into  the  freedom 
of  his  Yesterdays.  He  escaped  from  the  galling 
chains  that  Success  had  put  upon  him  and  lived  again 
a  circus  day  in  the  long  ago. 

Weeks  before  the  date  of  the  great  event,  the  barns 
and  sheds  and  every  available  wall  in  the  little  vil 
lage,  to  which  the  boy  often  went  with  his  father, 
would  be  covered  with  gorgeous  pictures  announcing 
the  many  startling,  stupendous,  wonders,  to  be  seen 

291 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

for  so  small  a  price.  There  was  a  hippopotamus  of 
such  size  that  a  boat  load  of  twenty  naked  savages 
was  not  for  him  a  mouthful.  There  were  elephants 
so  huge  that  the  house  where  the  boy  lived  was  but 
a  play  house  beside  them.  There  were  troops  of 
aerial  artists,  who,  on  wires  and  rings  and  trapeze 
and  ladders  and  ropes,  did  daring,  dreadful,  death 
defying,  deeds,  that  no  simian  in  his  old  world  forest 
would  ever  think  of  attempting.  There  was  a  great, 
glittering,  gorgeous,  procession,  of  such  length  that 
the  farther  end  was  lost  beyond  the  distant  horizon 
and  tents  that  covered  more  acres  of  ground  than 
the  boy  could  see  from  the  top  of  the  orchard  hill. 

Wonderful  promises  of  the  billboards !  Wonder 
ful  !  Wonderful  promises  of  the  billboards  of  Life ! 
WTonderf  ul ! 

Then  would  follow  the  days  of  waiting — the  end 
less  days  of  waiting — when  the  boy,  with  the  help  of 
the  little  girl,  would  try  to  be  everything  that  the 
billboards  pictured,  from  the  roaring  lion  in  his  cage 
to  the  painted  clown  who  cut  such  side  splitting 
capers  and  the  human  fly  that,  with  her  gay  Japanese 
parasol,  walked  upside  down  upon  a  polished  ceiling. 
When  circus  day  was  coming,  the  fairies  and  knights 
and  princes  and  soldiers  and  all  their  tried  and  true 
companions  were  forced  to  go  somewhere — any- 

292 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

where — out  of  the  boy's  way.  There  was  no  time,  in 
those  busy  days,  even  for  fishing.  The  old  mill  pond 
had  no  charm  that  was  not  exceeded  by  the  promises 
of  the  billboards.  The  earth  itself,  indeed,  was 
merely  a  place  upon  which  to  pitch  a  circus  tent. 
The  charms  of  the  little  girl,  even,  were  almost  totally 
eclipsed  by  the  captivating  loveliness  of  those  ladies- 
who,  in  spangled  tights  of  blue  and  pink  and  red, 
hung  b>  their  teeth  at  dizzy  heights,  bestrode  glitter 
ing  wheels  upon  slack  wires,  or  were  shot  from 
cannon  to  soar,  amid  black  smoke  and  lurid  flame, 
like  angels,  far  above  the  heads  of  the  common 
people. 

There  was  no  lying  in  bed  to  be  called  the  third 
time  the  morning  of  that  day;  when  at  last  it  came. 
Scarcely  had  the  sun  peeped  through  the  orchard  on 
the  hill  when  the  boy  was  up  and  at  the  window 
anxiously  looking  to  see  if  the  sky  was  clear.  Very 
early  the  start  for  town  was  made  for  there  is  much 
on  circus  day  that  is  not  pictured  on  the  billboards — 
that,  of  course,  the  boy  knew.  And,  as  they  drove 
through  the  fresh  smelling  fields,  the  boy  would  won 
der  if  the  long  journey  would  ever  come  to  an  end 
and  would  ask  himself,  with  sinking  heart:  "What 
if  they  had  mistaken  the  day?  What  if  something 
had  happened  that  the  circus  could  not  materialize 

293 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

the  promises  of  the  billboards  ?  What,  if  the  hippo 
potamus,  the  elephants,  the  beautiful  ladies  in  span 
gles  and  tights,  and  all  the  other  promises  of  the 
billboards  should  fail  ?"  And  somewhere,  deep 
within  his  being,  the  boy  would  feel  a  thrill  of  glad 
ness  that  the  little  girl  was  so  close  beside  him.  If 
anything  should  happen  that  the  promises  of  the  bill 
boards  should  fail  he  would  need  the  little  girl. 
While,  if  nothing  happened — if  it  was  all  a?  pictured 
— still  it  would  not  be  enough  if  the  little  girl  were 
not  there. 

It  was  all  over  at  last.  The  spangled  riders  gal 
loped  out  of  the  ring;  the  trapeze  performers  made 
their  last  death  defying  leap;  the  clown  cracked  his 
last  joke  and  cut  his  last  caper ;  the  last  peanut  in  the 
sack  was  devoured  by  the  elephant;  and,  at  the  close 
of  the  long  day,  the  boy  and  the  girl  went  back 
through  the  quiet  fields  to  their  homes ;  tired  with  the 
excitement  and  wonder  of  it  all  but  with  sighs  of  con 
tent  and  happiness.  And,  deep  in  his  heart,  that 
night,  the  boy  resolved  that  he  would  grow  up  to 
travel  with  a  circus.  He  would  be  very  sorry  to 
leave  father  and  mother  and  the  little  girl  but  nothing 
in  the  world — nothing — should  keep  him  from  such 
a  glorious  career. 

The  man  knew,  now,  that  the  promises  of  those 
294 


THEIE  YESTEKDAYS 

billboards  in  his  Yesterdays  were  never  fulfilled.  He 
knew,  now,  that  the  golden  chariots  were  not  gold  at 
all  but  only  gilded.  He  knew,  now,  that  those  won 
drous  beings  who  wore  the  glittering,  spangled,  cos 
tumes,  were  only  very  common  and  very  ordinary 
men  and  women.  He  did  not,  now,  envy  the  riders 
in  the  procession  or  the  performers  in  the  tent.  He 
knew  that  to  have  a  place  in  the  parade  or  to  perform 
in  the  ring,  is  to  envy  those  whose  applause  you  must 
win.  The  quiet  of  the  old  fields;  the  peaceful  home 
under  the  orchard  hill;  the  gentle  companionship 
of  the  little  girl ;  these  were  the  things  that  in  the 
man's  life  endured  long  after  the  glamor  of  the 
circus  was  gone. 

Through  the  circus  day  crowd  the  man  was  driven 
on  to  his  appointment  but  his  mind  was  not  now  occu 
pied  with  the  business  that  awaited  him.  His 
thoughts  were  not  with  the  crowd  that  filled  the 
streets.  His  heart  was  in  his  Yesterdays.  The  music 
of  the  circus  band,  the  sight  of  the  parade  that  so 
stirred  his  memories  of  childhood,  had  awakened 
within  him  a  hunger  for  the  old  home  scenes.  He 
longed  to  escape  from  Success — to  get  away  from  the 
circus  parade  of  Life  in  which  he  found  himself 
riding.  He  was  weary  of  performing  in  the  ring.  He 
wanted  to  go  home  through  the  quiet  fields.  Per- 

295 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

haps — perhaps — amid  the  scenes  of  his  Yesterdays, 
he  might  find  that  which  Success  had  not  brought. 

As  quickly  as  he  could  make  arrangements,  he 
went. 


Of  the  woman's  success,  I  cannot  write  here.  My 
story  has  been  poorly  told,  indeed,  if  I  have  not  made 
it  clear  that,  for  this  woman  who  knew  herself  to  be 
a  woman,  Success  was  inseparable  from  Love. 

For  every  woman  who  knows  herself  to  be  a 
woman,  Love  and  Success  are  one. 


LOVE 

GAIN"  it  was  that  time  of  the  year  when 
A     II    every  corner  of  the  world  is  a  lovers' 
*"•  '''    corner. 

On  bough  and  branch,  in  orchard  and 
wood;  on  bush  and  vine,  in  garden  and  yard;  in 
meadow  grass  and  pasture  sod ;  on  the  silvery  lichens 
that  cling  to  the  rocks;  among  the  ferns  and  mosses 
that  dwell  in  cool  retreats ;  amid  the  reeds  and  rushes 
by  the  old  mill  pond;  in  the  fragrant  mints  and 
fluted  blades  on  the  banks  of  the  little  creek;  the 
children  of  Nature  'sought  their  mates  or  by  their 
mates  were  sought. 

Every  flower  cup  was  a  loving  cup,  lifted  to  drink 
a  pledge  to  Life ;  every  tint  of  color  was  a  blush 
of  love,  called  forth  by  the  wooing  of  Life;  every 
perfumed  breath  was  a  breath  of  love,  a  blessing  and 
prayer  of  Life ;  every  rustling  movement  was  a  whis 
per  of  love,  a  promised  word  of  Life;  every  touch 
of  the  breeze  was  a  caress  of  love,  a  passionate  kiss 
of  Life;  every  sunbeam  was  a  smile  of  love,  warm 
with  the  tender  triumph  of  Life. 

297 


THEIE  YESTEEDAYS 

The  bees,  that,  in  their  labor  for  hive  and  swarm, 
carry  the  golden  pollen  from  flower  to  flower,  preach 
thus  the  word  of  God.  The  gauze  winged  insects, 
that,  in  the  evening,  dance  their  aerial  mating  dance, 
declare  thus  the  Creator's  will.  The  fireflies,  that, 
in  the  night  time,  light  their  tiny  lamps  of  love,  signal 
thus  a  message  from  the  throne  on  high. 

The  fowls  of  the  air,  singing  their  mating  songs; 
the  wild  stallion  on  the  hills,  trumpeting  aloud  his 
fiery  strength ;  the  bull  on  the  plains,  thundering  his 
bellowing  challenge;  the  panther  that  in  the  moun 
tains  screams  to  his  mate ;  the  wolf  that  in  the  timber 
howls  to  his  mistress ;  declare  thus  the  supreme  law  of 
Life — make  known  the  unchanging  purpose  of  God 
— and  evidence  an  authority  and  power  divine. 

In  all  this  wooing  and  mating;  in  all  this  seeking 
and  being  sought;  in  all  this  giving  and  receiving; 
in  all  this  loving  and  being  loved ;  in  all  natural  and 
holy  desire;  Life  is  exalted — the  divine  is  worshiped 
— acceptable  offerings  to  God  are  made. 

To  preserve  Life — to  perpetuate  Life — to  produce 
Life — to  perfect  Life — to  exalt  Life — this  is  the  pur 
pose  of  Life.  In  all  the  activity  of  Life  there  is  no 
other  meaning  manifest.  This,  indeed,  is  Life.  How 
foolish  then  to  think  only  of  eternal  Life  as  though 
it  began  at  the  grave.  This  Life  that  is,  is  the  eter- 

298 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

nal  Life.  Eternity  is  to-day.  The  man  and  woman 
who  mate  in  love  fulfill  thus  the  eternal  law  of  Life, 
and,  in  their  children,  conceived  and  born  in  Love, 
do  they  know  and  do  the  will  of  God,  even  as  do  all 
things  that  are  alive. 

Life  and  Love  are  one. 

The  man  had  been  at  his  boyhood  home  but  three 
days  when  the  neighbor,  who  lived  next  door,  told 
him  that  his  childhood  playmate  was  coming,  with 
her  aunt,  to  visit  their  old  home  for  a  few  weeks. 

"Needs  a  rest  and  quiet"  the  neighbor  said;  and 
smiled  at  nothing  at  all  as  neighbors  will  some 
times  do. 

Perhaps,  though,  the  neighbor  smiled  at  the  look 
of  surprise  and  bewilderment  that  swept  over  the 
man's  face  as  he  heard  the  news,  or  it  might  have 
been  at  the  mingling  of  pleasure  and  regret  that  was 
in  his  voice  as  he  answered:  "Indeed."  Or,  per 
haps,  the  neighbor  was  wondering  what  the  woman 
would  say  and  how  she  would  look  if  she  knew  that 
the  man  was  to  be  next  door.  Whatever  the  reason 
the  neighbor  smiled. 

They  did  not  know  that  the  woman  was,  in  reality, 
seeking  to  escape  from  the  thought  of  Failure  that 
so  haunted  her.  Since  that  day  when  her  good  friend 
had  talked  to  her  of  her  career  and  had  gravely  asked 

299 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

— "for  you  do  you  think  it  would  be  success  ?" — her 
work  had  become  more  and  more  unbearable.  In 
desperation,  at  last,  she  had  arranged  to  go,  for  a 
few  weeks,  back  to  the  scenes  of  her  girlhood ;  hoping 
to  find  there,  as  she  had  found  before,  the  peace  and 
strength  she  needed. 

The  cherry  tree,  in  the  corner  of  the  garden  near 
the  hedge,  showered  the  delicate  petals  of  its  blos 
soms  down  with  every  touch  of  the  gentle  breeze. 
In  the  nearby  bower  of  green,  a  pair  of  brown  birds 
had  just  put  the  finishing  touch  to  a  new  nest.  But, 
in  the  years  that  had  passed  since  that  boy  and  girl 
play  wedding,  the  tree  had  grown  large,  and  scarred, 
and  old.  Many  pairs  of  brown  birds  had  nested  and 
reared  their  broods  in  the  hedge  since  that  day  when 
the  lad  had  kissed  his  childhood  mate  with  a  kiss  that 
was  different.  And  the  little  opening  through  which 
the  boy  and  girl  had  so  often  gone  at  each  other's 
call  was  closed  by  a  growth  of  branches  that  time 
had  woven  as  if  to  shut,  forever,  that  gateway  of 
their  Yesterdays.  On  his  former  visit,  the  man  had 
looked  for  that  gateway  of  his  childhood  but  could 
not  find  it.  And  now,  when  he  heard  that  she  was 
coming,  he  went  again,  curiously,  to  see  if  he  could 
find  any  sign  to  show  where  the  opening  had  been. 
But  the  branches  that  the  years  had  woven  hid  from 

300 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

the  man's  eyes  every  trace  of  the  old  way  that,  in 
his  Yesterdays,  had  been  so  plain. 

Late  that  afternoon,  when  the  neighbor,  coming 
from  the  depot  with  his  guests,  drove  slowly  up  the 
hill,  the  man  stood  at  the  gate  where,  years  before, 
the  little  boy  had  sat  on  the  post,  and,  swinging  his 
bare  legs,  had  watched  the  big  wagons,  loaded  with 
household  goods,  turning  into  the  yard  of  the  place 
next  door. 

There  was  no  reason  why  the  man  should  get  up 
when  the  first  touches  of  gray  light  showed  in  the 
eastern  sky  the  next  morning,  but  the  day  seemed  to 
call  him  and  he  arose  and  went  out.  From  the  little 
hill  where  he  had  sat  that  day  when  first  he  knew 
that  he  was  a  man  and  where  his  manhood  life  began 
with  his  dreams,  he  watched  the  sun  rise  and  saw 
the  sleeping  world  awake.  Then  back  through  the 
orchard  that  was  all  dew  drenched  and  ringing  with 
the  morning  hymn  of  the  birds,  he  went,  until  he 
stood  in  the  garden. 

The  man  did  not  know  why  he  went  into  the  gar 
den.  Something  seemed  to  lead  him  there.  And  he 
went  very  softly  as  one  goes  into  places  that  are  holy 
with  the  memories  of  dead  years.  Very  still,  he 
stood,  watching  the  two  birds  that  had  builded  their 
nest  in  the  hedge  near  the  cherry  tree  that,  now,  lifted 

301 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

its  branches  so  high.  The  two  birds  were  very,  very, 
busy  that  morning;  but,  busy  as  they  were,  the 
father  bird  could  not  resist  pouring  forth  the  joy  of 
his  life  in  a  flood  of  melody  while  his  mate,  swinging 
and  fluttering  and  chirping  on  a  nearby  twig,  seemed 
to  enter  as  fully  and  heartily  into  his  sentiments  as 
though  the  song  were  her  own.  Breathlessly,  with 
bare  head  and  upturned,  eager,  face,  the  man  watched 
and  listened. 

When  the  song  was  ended  he  drew  a  long  breath — 
then  started  and,  without  moving  from  his  place, 
looked  carefully  around.  A  low  call  had  reached  his 
ears — a  familiar  call  that  seemed  to  come  out  of  the 
long  ago.  Surely  his  fancy  was  playing  him  strange 
tricks  that  morning. 

He  was  turning  toward  the  house  when,  again, 
that  call  came — low  and  clear.  It  was  a  call  of  his 
Yesterdays.  And  this  time  it  was  followed  by  a  low, 
full  throated  laugh  that  was  as  full  of  music  as  the 
song  of  the  bird  to  which  the  man  had  been  listening. 

With  amazement  and  wonder  upon  his  face,  he 
turned  quickly  toward  the  hedge,  as  a  voice  that  was 
like  an  echo  of  the  laugh  said:  "Good  morning! 
Pardon  me  for  startling  you — you  looked  so  much 
like  the  little  boy  that  I  couldn't  resist." 


302 


'When  they  told  me  that  you  were  here  I  wanted  to  go  away  again' 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

"But  where  are  you  ?"  asked  the  man,  bewildered 
still. 

Again  came  that  low,  full  throated  laugh.  Then : 
"I  believe  you  think  I  am  a  ghost.  I'm  here  at  the 
hedge — at  the  old  place.  Have  you  forgotten  ?" 

Slowly,  as  she  spoke,  he  went  toward  the  hedge, 
guided  by  her  voice.  "So  you  found  it  then,"  he 
said  slowly,  gazing  at  the  beautiful  woman  face  that 
was  framed  in  the  green  of  the  leaves  and  branches. 

And  at  his  words,  the  woman's  heart  beat  quicker 
— so  he  had  tried  to  find  it — but  aloud  she  only  said : 
"Of  course." 

To  which  he  returned  smilingly :  "But  it  is  quite 
grown  over  now,  isn't  it?  You  could  scarcely  come 
through  there  now  as  you  used  to  do — could  you  ?" 

The  woman  laughed  again.  "I  could  if  I  were  a 
man" — she  challenged. 

A  moment  later  he  stood  beside  her ;  a  little  breath 
less,  with  his  clothing  disarranged,  and  a  scratch  or 
two  on  his  face  and  hands. 

"Do  you  know" — she  said  when  they  had  shaken 
hands  quite  properly  as  grown  up  people  must  do — 
"do  you  know  that  I  was  dreadfully  afraid  to  meet 
you?  When  they  told  me  that  you  were  here  I 
wanted  to  go  away  again.  I  was  afraid  that  you 
would  be  so  different.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

303 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

"Yes,"  he  said,  gravely,  "I  understand."  But  he 
did  not  tell  her,  then,  how  fully  he  understood. 

She  went  on:  "But  when  I  looked  through  the 
hedge  and  saw  you  with  your  hat  off,  watching  the 
birds,  I  knew  you  were  the  same  little  boy — and — 
well — I  could  not  resist  giving  the  old  call." 

And,  all  at  once,  the  man  knew  why  he  had  risen 
early  that  morning  and  why  he  had  gone  into  the 
garden. 

After  that,  they  spent  many  days  together  in  the 
scenes  of  their  childhood;  living  over  again,  so  far 
as  man  and  woman  may,  their  Yesterdays.  And  so 
came,  at  last,  the  day  that  was  forever  after,  to  them, 
the  day  of  all  their  days. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  and  they  were  together 
down  by  the  little  brook,  in  the  shade  of  the  wil 
lows,  where  the  stream,  running  lazily  under  the 
patches  of  light  and  shade,  murmured  drowsily — 
seeming  more  than  half  asleep.  She  was  weaving 
an  old  time  daisy  chain  from  a  great  armful  that  he 
had  helped  her  gather  on  their  way  to  the  cool  re 
treat.  A  bit  of  fancy  work  that  she  had  brought 
from  the  house  lay  neglected  near  his  hat,  which  the 
man,  boy  like,  had  cast  aside.  He  was  industriously 
fishing  for  minnows,  with  a  slender  twig  of  willow 
for  a  rod,  a  line  of  thread  from  her  sewing,  and  a 

304 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

pin,  that  she  had  found  for  him,  fashioned  into  a 
hook.  With  a  pointed  stick  he  had  dug  among  the 
roots  of  the  old  tree  for  bait — securing  one,  tiny, 
thin,  worm  and  rejoicing  gleefully  at  his  success,  For 
a  long  time  neither  had  said  a  word ;  but  the  woman, 
her  white  fingers  busy  with  the  daisies  in  her  lap, 
had  several  times  looked  up  from  her  pretty  task  to 
smile  at  the  man  who  was  so  intensely  and  seriously 
interested  in  his  childish  sport. 

"Gee!  I  nearly  got  one  that  time!"  He  ex 
claimed  with  boyish  triumph  and  disappointment  in 
his  voice. 

The  woman  laughed  merrily.  "One  would  think," 
she  said,  "that  your  fame  in  life  depended  upon  your 
catching  one  of  those  poor  little  fish.  What  do  you 
suppose  your  dear,  devoted,  public  would  say  if  they 
could  see  you  now?" 

The  man  grunted  his  disapproval.  "I  came  out 
here  to  get  away  from  said  public,"  he  retorted. 
"Why  do  you  drag  'em  into  our  paradise  ?" 

At  his  words,  a  warm  color  crept  into  the  woman's 
face,  and,  bending  low  over  the  daisies  in  her  lap, 
she  did  not  answer. 

Lifting  the  improvised  fishing  tackle  of  his  child 
hood  and  looking  at  it  critically  the  man  said:  "I 
suppose,  now,  that  if  this  rod  were  a  split  bamboo,. 

305 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

and  this  thread  were  braided  silk,  and  this  pin  with 
its  wiggly  piece  of  worm  were  a  "Silver  Doctor"  or 
a  "Queen  of  the  Waters"  or  a  "Dusty  Miller"  or  a 
"Brown  Hackle" ;  and  if  this  stream  were  an  edu 
cated  stream,  with  educated  trout;  and  the  house  up 
there  were  a  club  house ;  and  your  dear  old  aunt,  who 
is  watching  to  see  that  I  don't  eat  you,  were  a  lot 
of  whist  playing  old  men ;  I  suppose  you  would  think 
it  all  right  and  a  proper  sport  for  a  man.  But  for 
me — I  can't  see  much  difference — except  that,  just 
now — "  he  carefully  lowered  his  hook  into  the  water 
— "just  now,  I  prefer  this.  In  fact,"  he  added  medi 
tatively,  "I  would  rather  do  this  than  anything  else 
in  the  world." 

The  color  in  the  woman's  face  deepened. 

After  a  little,  he  looked  cautiously  around  to  see 
her  bending  over  the  daisy  chain.  A  moment  later, 
under  pretense  of  examining  his  bait,  he  stole  an 
other  look.  Then,  in  spite  of  his  declaration,  he 
abandoned  his  sport  to  stretch  himself  full  length 
on  the  ground  at  her  side. 

She  did  not  look  at  him  but  bent  her  head  low 
over  the  wealth  of  white  and  gold  blossoms  in  her 
lap ;  and  the  man  -noticed,  with  an  odd  feeling  of 
pleasure,  the  beautiful  curve  of  her  white  neck  from 
the  soft  brown  hair  to  the  edge  of  her  dress  low  on 

306 


THEIE  YESTERDAYS 

the  shoulder.  Then,  with  a  sly  smile,  as  the  boy  of 
their  Yesterdays  might  have  done,  he  stealthily 
raised  the  slender  willow  twig  and  with  the  tip 
cautiously  attempted  to  lift  the  thin  golden  chain  that 
she  always  wore  loosely  about  her  throat  with  the 
locket  or  pendant  concealed  by  her  dress. 

She  clutched  the  chain  with  a  frightened  gesture 
and  a  little  exclamation.  "You  must  not — you 
must  not  do  that." 

The  man  laughed  aloud  as  the  mischievous  boy 
would  have  laughed. 

But  the  woman,  with  flaming  cheeks,  caught  the 
twig  from  his  hand  and  threw  it  into  the  creek.  "If 
you  are  not  good,  I  shall  call  auntie,"  she  threatened. 

At  which  he  looked  ruefully  toward  the  porch  and 
became  very  serious.  "Do  you  know  that  I  am  going 
away  to-morrow  ?"  he  asked. 

"And  leave  your  paradise  for  your  dear  public  ?" 
she  said  mockingly.  "The  public  will  be  glad." 

"And  you,  will  you  care  ?" 

"I'm  going  back  to  my  work,  too,  next  week,"  she 
replied. 

"But  will  you  care  to-morrow  ?"  he  persisted. 

The  woman's  fingers,  busy  with  the  daisy  chain, 
trembled. 

The  man,  when  she  still  did  not  answer  his  ques- 
307 


THEIK  YESTERDAYS 

tion,  arose  and,  picking  up  his  bat  and  her  sewing, 
held  out  his  hand. 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  questioningly. 

"Come" — he  said  with  a  grave  smile — "come." 

Still  without  speaking,  she  gave  him  her  hand  and 
he  helped  her  to  her  feet ;  and,  at  her  touch,  the  man 
again  felt  that  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  aunt,  from  her  place  on  the  porch,  saw  them 
coming  up  the  grassy  slope,  through  the  daisies, 
toward  the  house.  She  saw  them  coming  and  smiled 
— as  the  neighbor  had  smiled,  so  she  smiled,  appar 
ently,  at  nothing  at  all. 

But  the  man  and  the  woman  did  not  go  to  the 
porch  where  the  old  lady  sat.  With  a  wave  of  their 
hands,  they  passed  from  her  sight  around  the  house, 
and,  a  few  minutes  later,  stood  face  to  face  in  that 
quiet,  secluded,  corner  of  the  garden,  under  the  old 
cherry  tree,  close  by  the  hedge. 

"Now,"  said  the  man  gently,  "now  tell  me — will 
you  be  sorry  to  have  me  go  away  to-morrow  ?" 

She  made  no  pretense  that  she  did  not  understand. 
NOT  did  she  hesitate  as  one  in  doubt.  Lifting  her 
head,  proudly,  humbly,  graciously,  she  looked  at  him 
and,  in  that  look,  surrendered  to  him,  without  re 
serve,  all  the  treasures  of  her  womanhood  that,  with 
such  care,  she  had  kept  against  that  hour.  And  her 

308 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

face  was  shining  with  the  light  that  only  a  woman's 
mate  can  kindle. 

The  man  caught  his  breath.  "My  wife,"  he  said. 
"My  wife." 

A  few  moments  later  he  whispered:  "Tell  me 
again — I  know  that  you  have  always  belonged  to  me 
and  I  to  you — but  tell  me  again — you  will — you  will 
— be  my  wife?" 

Releasing  herself  gently,  she  lifted  her  hands  and, 
unfastening  that  slender  chain  of  gold  from  around 
her  throat,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  happy,  tender,  eyes, 
held  out  to  him  a  tiny  brass  ring. 

So  the  Yesterdays  of  the  man  and  the  Yesterdays 
of  the  woman  became  Their  Yesterdays. 

All  that  Dreams,  Occupation,  Knowledge,  Igno 
rance,  Religion,  Tradition,  Temptation,  Life,  Death, 
Failure,  Success,  Love  and  Memories  had  given  him, 
this  man  who  knew  that  he  was  a  man,  gave  to  her. 
All  that  the  Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of  Life 
had  given  her,  this  woman  who  knew  herself  to  be  a 
woman,  gave  to  him.  And  thus  these  two  became 
one.  As  God  made  them  one,  they  became  one. 

And  this  is  the  love  that,  I  say,  is  one  of  the 
Thirteen  Truly  Great  Things  of  Life. 

But  my  story  is  not  yet  quite  finished  for  still, 
you  must  know,  there  are  Memories. 

309 


MEMORIES 

NT)  the  years  of  the  man  and  the  woman 

A\  ]    passed  until  all  their  days  were  Tester- 
"   days. 

Even  as  they  had,  together,  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  old,  old,  door  that  has  stood  open 
since  the  beginning,  they  stood  now,  together,  upon 
the  threshold  of  another  door  that  has  never  been 
closed. 

And  it  was  so,  that,  as  once  they  went  back  into 
the  Yesterdays  that  became  Their  Yesterdays,  so 
they  still  went  back  to  the  days  that  were  past.  It 
was  so,  that  the  things  of  their  manhood  and  woman 
hood  had  become  to  them,  now,  even  as  the  things  of 
their  childhood.  They  knew,  now,  that,  indeed,  the 
work  of  men  is  but  the  play  of  children,  after  all. 

Their  years  were  nearly  spent,  it  is  true.  His  hair 
was  silvery  white  and  his  form  was  bent  and  trem 
bling.  Her  cheeks  were  like  the  drying  petals  of  a 
rose  and  her  once  brown  hair  was  as  white  as  his. 
But  the  vigor  and  strength  and  life  of  their  years 
lived  still — gloriously  increased  in  the  lives  that  they 
had  given  to  the  race. 

310 


THEIR  YESTERDAYS 

Gone  were  the  years  of  their  manhood  and  woman 
hood — even  as  the  days  of  their  boyhood  and  girlhood 
— they  were  gone.  But,  as  the  boy  and  the  girl  had 
lived  in  the  man  and  the  woman,  the  man  and  the 
woman  lived,  now,  in  their  boys  and  girls  and  in  the 
children  of  their  children. 

And  this  was  the  true  glory  and  the  fulfillment  of 
their  lives — that  they  could  live  thus  in  their  chil 
dren — that  they  could  see  themselves  renewed  in  their 
children  and  in  their  children's  children. 

So  it  was  that  Memories  became  to  this  man  and 
this  woman,  also,  one  of  the  Thirteen  Truly  Great 
Things  of  Life. 

There  are  many  things  that  might  be  told  about 
this  man  and  woman — about  the  work  they  did,  the 
place  they  held  in  life,  and  the  rewards  and  honors 
they  received — but  I  have  put  down  all  that,  at  the 
end,  seemed  of  any  importance  to  them.  Therefore 
have  I  put  down  all  that  matters  to  my  story. 

What  matters  to  them  and  to  my  story  is  this: 
always,  as  they  went  back  into  the  Yesterdays,  they 
went  back  to  the  days  of  their  childhood  and  to  the 
days  of  their  children.  They  went  back  only  to 
Their  Yesterdays.  To  those  other  days — those  days 
when  they  were  strangers — they  did  not  go  back. 

THE 


Best  sellers  run  away  and  hide  when  the  author  of 
"The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills'*  comes  into  the  running. 
— Philadelphia  North  American. 


Ozark   'Life  Stories'" 

By   HAROLD    BELL    WRIGHT 


J         C 


That  Printer  of  Udell's 

With  Illustrations  by 
JOHN   CLITHEROE  GILBERT 

12mo.  Cloth 


The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills 


With  Illustrations  by 
F.  GRAHAM   COOTES 

12mo.  Cloth 


The  Calling  of  Dan  Matthews 


With  Illustrations  by 
ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 

12mo.  Cloth 


ANNOUNCEMENT 

For  Publication,  August,  1913 

Harold  Bell  Wright's  Next  Novel 

A  REAL  LOVE  STORY 

The  Eyes  of  the  World 

First  Printing— One  Million  Copies 

Harold  Bell  Wright's  Books  and 
Their  Meaning 

THEIR      YESTERDAYS 

A  Tender  Story 
An  Exaltation  of  Life  and  Love 

THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH 

A  Clean  Story 
The  Ministry  of  Capital 

THE  CALLING  OF  DAN  MATTHEWS 

A  Vital  Story 
The  Ministry  of  Daily  Life 

THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

A  Sweet  Story 

An  Inspiration  to  the  Simple  Life 

THAT    PRINTER    OF     UDELL'S 

A  Vigorous  Story 
A  Story  of  Practical  Christianity 

THE    UNCROWNED    KING 

An  Allegory 

An  Inspirational  Message  of  Truth 


Over  Three  Million  Copies 

Have  Been  Sold 


Books  by  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

Their    Yesterdays 

Illustrations  in  Colors  by  F.  Graham  Cootes 
Cloth,  12mo.     311  Pages.     $1.30  Net 

The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth 

Illustrations  by  F.  Graham  Cootes 
Cloth,  12mo.     512  Pages.     $1.30  Net 

The  Calling  of  Dan  Matthews 

Illustrations  in  Color  by  Arthur  I.   Keller 
Cloth,  12mo.     364  Pages.     $1.50 

The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills 

Illustrations  by  F.   Graham  Cootes 
Cloth,  12mo.     352  Pages.    $1.50 

That  Printer  of  Udell's 

Illustrations  in  Color  by  John  Clitheroe  Gilbert 
Cloth,  12mo.     348  Pages.     $1.50 

The  above  are  uniformly  bound 

The    Uncrowned    King 

Illustrations  by  John  Rea  Neill 

Cloth,  16mo.     118  Pages.     50  Cents  Net 

Full  Leather,  $1.00  Net 


THE  WINNING  OF 
BARBARA  WORTH 

By  the  Author  of 

"THEIR  YESTERDAYS" 

"THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS'* 

ETC.,  ETC. 


From  Some  of  the  Reviews 

"It  is  a  novel  with  'body/  with  a  large  and  timely 
idea  back  of  it,  with  sound  principles  under  it,  and  with 
a  good  crescendo  of  dramatic  thrills." 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"To  the  reader  the  characters  will  appear  as  real  as 
friends  they  know — all  of  their  aims,  and  likes,  and 
hatreds  being  portrayed  as  true  to  life  as  snapshots 
caught  by  moving-picture  cameras." — Boston  Globe. 

"The  characters  take  the  reader  with  them  wherever 
they  go,  and  they  are  characters  that  seem  to  have  tem 
porarily  stepped  from  real  life  into  the  pages  of  the 
book." — Pittsburg  Chronicle-Telegraph. 

"The  romance  of  the  novel  is  told  in  a  very  charming 
love  story  which  has  'Barbara  Worth'  for  its  inspira 
tion.  With  her  winning  the  author  has  deftly  inter 
woven  an  epic  of  national  reclamation  work  and  present- 
day  good  business." — Richmond  Times-Dispatch. 

"With  a  vividness  that  assumes  reality  Mr.  Wright 
shows  how  capital  may  be  used  to  gain  its  end  and  at 
the  same  time  save  the  community  and  still  be  'good 
business'." — Omaha  Bee. 

"  The  Calling  of  Dan  Matthews'  was  a  fine  tale ;  The 
Shepherd  of  the  Hills'  was  an  inspiration.  And  now 
he  sends  us  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth' — the 
best  thing  he  has  done  so  far  *  *  *  a  twentieth 
century  epic." — Cleveland  Plaindealer. 


THE  CALLING  OF 
DAN    MATTHEWS 

By  the  Author  of 

"THE  SHEPHERD   OF  THE  HILLS" 

"THAT  PRINTER  OF  UDELL'S'1 

ETC.,  ETC. 


From  Some  of  the  Reviews 

"Mr.  Wright  has  written  other  novels,  but  this  one  is  so 
strong  and  wholesome,  so  attractive  as  literature,  so  inter 
esting  as  a  story,  so  artistic  in  preparation,  that  it  wins 
increasing  favor  as  one  gets  into  it." — Buffalo  Evening  News. 

"Mr.  Wright  has  the  gift  of  knowing  people  well  and  of 
being  able  to  set  out  their  characteristics  so  clearly  that  his 
reader  also  knows  them  well." — Chicago  Journal. 

"It  Is  a  privilege  to  meet  the  people  whom  the  author 
allows  you  to  know.  They  are  worth  while  ;  and  to  cry  and 
feel  with  them,  get  into  the  fresh,  sweet  atmosphere  with 
which  the  writer  surrounds  them — and  above  all,  to  under 
stand  Dan  Matthews  and  to  go  with  him  in  his  unfoldment 
— these  will  repay  you." — Portland  Spectator. 

"Harold  Bell  Wright  has  done  a  fine  big  piece  of  work. 
*  *  *  One  might  quote  at  length  from  the  old  doctor's 
homely  philosophy.  The  book  cannot  be  read  without  the 
keenest  enjoyment  and  at  the  end  of  the  story  one  feels  that 
the  people  are  old  friends,  real  flesh  and  blood  characters, 
so  human  are  they  all." — San  Francisco  Call. 

"A  skillfully  mapped  battle-field  of  human  souls,  relieved, 
it  is  true,  by  humor,  but,  for  the  most  part,  pathetic  and, 
at  times  brooded  over  by  the  mystery  of  spirit-strength,  life's 
close,  never-ending  tragedy." — Chicago  Examiner. 

"Mr.  Wright's  books  are  wholesome  hi  the  best  sense. 
They  express  a  faith  which  lies  in  practical  deeds.  This 
latest  of  them  should  materially  extend  the  author's  favor 
in  a  field  which  he  has  made  his  own." — New  York  World. 


The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills 

By  the  Author  of 

"THE  CALLING  OF  DAN  MATTHEWS" 

"THAT  PRINTER  OF  UDELL'S'* 

ETC.,  ETC. 


From  Some  of  the  Reviews 

"There  are  many  bits  of  excellent  description  in  the 
course  of  the  story,  and  an  atmosphere  as  fresh  and 
sweet  and  free  from  modern  grime  as  one  would 
breathe  on  the  Ozark  trails  themselves." — New  York 
Times. 

"Amidst  all  the  ordinary  literature  of  the  day,  it  is 
as  a  pure,  white  stone  set  up  along  a  dreary  road  of 
unending  monotony." — Buffalo  Courier. 

"It  is  filled  with  laughs  and  tears,  this  beautiful 
story,  and  no  one  can  help  laughing  or  crying  in  turn, 
if  his  heart  is  right." — Pueblo  Chieftain. 

"It  is  a  heart-stirring  story.  A  tale  to  bring  laughter 
and  tears ;  a  story  to  be  read  and  read  again." — Grand 
Rapids  Herald. 

"The  people  who  move  within  it  are  so  human  that 
the  reader  of  their  story  will  pick  them  out  for  like 
and  dislike,  as  if  he  had  really  known  them  in  the  flesh, 
rather  than  in  the  pages  of  a  book." — Chicago  Journal. 

"One  of  the  best  novels  written  in  the  English  lan 
guage  for  over  a  decade.  *  *  *  Good  luck  to  the 
man  who  can  put  upon  paper  so  fine  a  novel  of  Ameri 
can  life." — Pittsburg  Press. 

"One  of  the  really  good  books  of  the  year.  *  *  * 
A  powerful  and  analytical  study  of  character." — Cleve 
land  Plain  Dealer. 


That  Printer  of  Udell's 

By  the  Author  of 

"THE  CALLING  OF  DAN  MATTHEWS" 

"THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS" 

ETC.,  ETC. 


From  Some  of  the  Reviews 

"Altogether  an  estimable  story." — New  York  Sun. 
"Done  to  the  life." — Chicago  Tribune. 
"Well  written  and  decidedly  interesting." 

— New  York  Times. 

"A  thoroughly  good  novel." — Boston  Globe. 
"Wrings  tears  and  laughter." — Record-Herald,  Chicago. 
"Absorbing,  thoughtful  novel." — Kansas  City  Journal. 
"Full  of  movement  and  passion." — Standard,  Chicago. 
"It  is  human  to  the  very  core." — Nashville  American. 
"Excellent  character  creation." — St.  Louis  Republic. 
"Wholesome  and  strengthening." — Albany  Press. 
"Rich  in  humor  and  good  sense." 

— Philadelphia  Telegraph. 
"Full  of  thrilling  interest  and  moral  heroism." 

—Pittsburg  Dispatch. 

"Many  well  drawn  characters." — Washington  Post. 
"Has  not  a  peer  in  English  fiction." 

— Providence  Telegram. 

"It  is  strong  and  wholesome." — Chicago  Post. 
"Not  a  chapter  that  is  not  interesting." — St.  Paul  News. 
"Is  a  fascinating  story." — Portland  Telegram. 
"It  should  be  read  to  be  understood." 

— Grand  Rapids  Herald. 
"The  reader's  interest  is  stirred  to  its  very  depths." 

—Omaha   World-Herald. 
"Many  strong  situations  and  some  deli: ate  ones." 

— San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"The  Ralph  Connor  of  Kansas." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 
"Most  clever,  stirring  and  original." 

— Birmingham  Nezvs. 
"A  tale  of  exalted  ideals." — Denver  Times. 


Oregon  Journal. — "Harold  Bell  Wright  has  given  to  the 
world  a  literary  gem  that  will  live." 

"The  Crown  is  not  the  kingdom,  nor  is  one  King 
because  he  wears  a  Crown." 

— From  tlThe  Uncrowned  King." 


Mr.  Wright's  Allegory  of  Life 
"The  Cameo  of  Literature" 


The 
Uncrowned  King 

Frontispiece  and  Ten  Illustrations  by 
John  Rea  Neill 

118  pages,  size  4%  x  7  inches.      Cloth,   Net  50  Cents — 
Full  Leather,  Net  $1.00 


From  Some  of  the  Reviews 

"It  embodies  the  aspiration,  civic  and  moral,  of  the  pres 
ent  day." — New  York  Tribune. 

"Beautiful  both  in  language  and  in  sentiment." — Chicago 
News. 

"It  represents  dreams  of  artistic  magnificence." — Buffalo 
Evening  News. 

"The  secret  of  his  power  is  the  same  God-given  secret 
that  inspired  Shakespeare  and  upheld  Dickens." — Philadel 
phia  Sunday  Dispatch. 

"It  is  the  greatest  story  since  Bunyan's  'Pilgrim's  Prog 
ress.'  " — Grand  Rapids  Herald. 

"It  is  a  classic  in  nature  and  spirit  and  rendering." — 
Omaha  World-Herald. 

"The  language  throughout  is  exquisite — such  as  one  might 
expect  of  Henry  Van  Dyke." — Richmond  Journal. 

"It  Is  an  insight  into  the  temple  of  truth  to  be  found  in 
every  man's  life  if  he  looks  for  it." — Wilmington  News. 

"It  is  beautiful  in  its  wording,  almost  poetry.  It  Is  beau 
tiful  in  its  binding  of  red  and  gold." — Birmingham,  Ledger. 


T.L    7HU3C 


250600 


